Free Roman Crazy by Alice Clayton, Nina Bocci Page B

I’d taken off my jewelry last night. My ring, and all it represented, sat tucked in a velvet-lined box waiting for me to put it back on. But why? Why would I still be wearing my wedding ring?
    Because you’re still married.
    My heart did a little flip. A small tremor for what Daniel and I had. The truth was that my heart never busted out and raced wild for him.
    Not when I fell in love with him—and I had—and not when I fell out of love with him, which I was still processing.
    I sank to the edge of the bed and gazed at it catching the light from the stained-glass window in my bedroom. There was a time when I wouldn’t have left the house without it. I felt naked even though there was a permanent faint ring on my skin reminding me. It was an extension of my relationship with Daniel, and I wondered how long it would take for the line to fade.
    I picked it up. It slid easily onto my finger, where it had lived for so many years.
    It surprised me how easily it slid off again. Holding it betweenmy fingers, I studied its flawlessness. If only the marriage was that perfect.
    The rings were supposed to symbolize the marriage. Thinking of Daniel and the secretary, I forced myself to replay the scene. He was gripping the desk, knuckles white, and sure enough—the ring was on.
    I wondered what was worse, that he had left it on, or if he had been one of those men who took it off and kept it in the glove compartment or desk drawer when they met their lovers.
    Heart heavy and weary, I slid the ring back into its box with a snap. Then into the darkest corner of the furthest edge of my suitcase, which I then tucked behind the bed and out of sight.
    Out of sight was one thing. Out of mind was another story.
    When I left the relative safety of my bedroom, I walked into a zone where nothing was safe or relative.
    It should be against the law for someone who looked like Marcello to be allowed to run free in a city as sexually charged as Rome. He was so very tall, towering in the small entryway. His body filled my entire vision: long, lean lines; sharp, see-everything eyes that were only beginning to show the tiniest hint of time; sinful-looking lips carved into an even line.
    â€œ Buongiorno .”
    That was the first word he’d spoken directly to me in nine years.
    â€œMarcello,” I replied, and the fist around my heart squeezed a little tighter.
    Our eyes locked and a thousand apologies were on my lips. Yet none of them came out. “You look well.”
    He huffed and shook his head a little. Taking a step back onto the porch, he said, “I know a place we can talk”—he glanced to Daisy—“privately.”
    I nodded, girding myself for, well I didn’t know for what. Marcello was passion personified and the conversation was likely going to be fueled by hurt and anger.
    â€œThere is such a big part of me that wants to tag along on this, but I’ll just stay home and organize my sock drawer. Avery, you’ve got my address written down somewhere, right?”
    â€œAddress?” I asked, my voice sounding dreamy and stupid even to my own ears. Shaking my head to clear it, I looked away from the Roman in the shrinking hallway and focused my attention on Daisy. “Yes, I have your address. I’ll be fine.”
    â€œIf you get lost, just find a cab. You’ve got money, right?” she asked, threading her arm through mine and tugging me away from the gravitational pull that was Marcello.
    He turned to her, and with a kindness clearly reserved for anyone but me, he calmed her down. “Daisy, cara, you’ve known me how long? We are just going to talk.”
    â€œI’ve known you for years, Marcello, and through all of those years I’ve adored you as a dear friend. But this is my girl, and for me, she comes first.”
    This little Western-style standoff needed no more oxygen, so I waded in to set everyone straight on what exactly was happening here.