Roman Crazy
Page 60

I watched him for a moment, starstruck by his looks. Even from across the quad, you could tell this guy had “it”—that quality that was going to take him wherever he wanted to go and would make sure it wasn’t all that hard to get there.
And then he turned. And he looked at me. And he smiled at me. And when his blue eyes met my brown ones, I could feel in my feet that he was someone special.
Now I stood in an Italian street, watching this man who was still impossibly beautiful. Broader in the shoulders now, his body filling out as he’d grown up. His hair still that same honey blond, perhaps a little thinner on top, and perhaps the honey was graying just the tiniest bit around his temples. The hair didn’t curl along the shirt collar anymore, he kept it shorter these days, but a few defiant waves perked up due to the humidity.
The dimples? Well, they were technically still there, but that’s one part of his face that I don’t have a clear, recent memory of. Maybe it was the pressures of his job, maybe it was the pressures of all the penis sharing, maybe it was just that he wasn’t that happy to see me anymore at the end of the day—but he rarely smiled at me anymore.
I was very glad that I had that moment to study him, because when he saw me, and he smiled, I’d had time to prepare for it. And when the dimples didn’t show up, even though the grin seemed wide enough to ensure dimple compliance, I saw him for who he was.
A man who desperately needed to stay married for the sake of appearances.
Taking a deep breath, I walked the rest of the block as his gaze took me in. His eyes traveled the length of my body, not in appreciation, but more like . . . cataloguing. I came to a stop in front of the stoop he was standing on.
“You changed your hair,” he said in lieu of a greeting.
“A flat iron is kind of pointless in Italy.” I looked at the carry-on bag sitting next to him. “You just get in?”
He nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yep, nonstop out of JFK.”
“Why not Logan?” I asked, wondering why he’d gone to New York.
“Logan was fully booked. All that was left was one middle seat in the back of the plane.” He smiled ruefully, shrugging shoulders. Whaddyagonnado. First-world problems solved by first class.
I’d been so anxious to get out of Boston I had sat in the back of the plane, in a middle seat. I took another step up toward him.
“I flew American—wanted the points.”
I nodded. “Of course.” Gotta get those points. “I made sure to use the American Airlines credit card for my purchases here.” I walked up the steps, now on the landing with him. He actually took a step back. “I knew you’d want the points.”
“Delta has a new program where you earn—”
“What are you doing here, Daniel?” I interrupted. “You didn’t fly all the way to Rome just to compare airline loyalty programs, did you?”
“No.”
“And how the hell did you know where I was? I didn’t give anyone Daisy’s address.”
“One of the papers you sent back to my lawyer. The return address was on the envelope.” His gaze dropped to the cobblestones below. “I don’t think I was supposed to see it, but I did.”
“So you saw a return address on an envelope containing letters about how best to resolve our divorce, and you decided to get on a plane?”
“I wanted to see you.” He swallowed hard, now lifting his eyes to mine. “I had to see you.”
“Daniel,” I sighed, and as the breath left my body, some of the tension left, too.
“I just want to talk to you for a few minutes, explain a few things. Just hear me out, okay?” He was pleading now, in a tone that I’d never heard from him before. He was nervous, sure, but there was something else there. Panic? No, it couldn’t be. But suddenly I was exhausted. The high from the weekend had dipped down into a low that I realized I didn’t want to experience out here on the stoop.
I moved to lift my bag higher onto my shoulder, but he took it, sliding it gently off my shoulder and onto his own. Ever the gentleman, his kind was trained from birth to hold a door, carry a bag, and pull out a chair. Too bad he wasn’t trained to keep his dick out from under other women’s skirts.
I pushed past him to the front door. “Come on in,” I said, seeing the relief in his eyes, knowing it would be short lived.
* * *
SEEING DANIEL IN DAISY’S APARTMENT felt so . . . weird. Wrong. Total and complete upside down and inside out.
I set my bag down in my room and headed back out to where Daniel was perched awkwardly on the edge of the couch. He held the glass of water I’d offered, sipped at it, held it, sipped at it again. He was nervous.
Interesting.
I stifled a smile and sat down opposite him. “So what’s up?”
“What’s up?” he repeated. “Seriously, what’s up?”
“What else do you want me to say? What can I do for you? How can I help you? Are you lost? Sorry I left you hanging about the dry cleaning?”
“What’s up is that I wanted to see you,” Daniel interrupted, setting down his glass with an irritated thunk. “To talk to you, and make sure that we’re doing the right thing here.”
“I’m not sure that the right thing was on your mind when you were giving it to your secretary.” I sat forward in my chair. “Did you really think you’d just show up unannounced, smile at me, and things would be just peachy? You slept with another woman! Several of them! I have no idea how many!”