ability to break down the different tones to her perfume?
Anna clears her throat, spoiling my moment, but I turn around and see she’s placed her briefcase on the table in the corner.
A quick glance around gives me a clue that I’ll be happy here. There’s a large cream sofa padded with cushions, and a long, walnut table that’s gleaming thanks to some good polish, where she’s plopped a notepad. The sofa looks out onto the windows, but in between the French doors, where a painting would probably have gone before, there’s a TV.
I like the idea of being able to look out onto Rome if I decide to watch some Netflix.
Behind the sofa, there’s a set of bookcases that are loaded down with books, as well as some little vases and ornaments that are kind of kitsch but sweet with it.
I like how clean it is, how airy, and that there’s a ton of space for me to move around in.
Maybe I wouldn’t have to join a gym. I could just do some workouts here. Which, to be honest, would be perfect. I’m dealing with fame at the worse time—even here in Italy they recognize me—so working out in a gym where people could give me the side-eye as they wait on me to drop a free weight?
Not fun.
There are six doors that lead off the living room, and I’m dying to have a peek around, but Anna evidently wants me over by the table, so I dump my rucksack on the sofa and head over to her.
If I falter in my step, I push past it.
I won’t show weakness in front of anyone.
A shaky breath escapes me as I take a seat, though, and I stare at her in question.
“We have a tourist tax you’ll need to pay,” she explains, as she passes me a contract. I sign, give her some cash to cover the tax, and she carries on explaining about the local amenities even though she has to sense I’m ready to drop.
By the time she leaves, I’m more than grateful she’s gone, and I explore the rest of the apartment on the hunt for my bed.
There are two bedrooms, but I like the back room because there’s a window that looks straight onto the Vatican. It’s high up, oddly high in fact, but when I’m in bed, I just know I’ll see the roof, plus, there’s a thick curtain that would cut out the light.
Sometimes, I get bad headaches, so the front bedroom, which is pretty bright, would be a nightmare for me.
This one has a bed with an antique headboard made of thick walnut, which matches the table, and has me wondering if they are heirloom pieces.
Crisp white linens cover the mattress, and a duvet that looks like a cloud tempts me to plunk myself onto it and just nap.
But I’m icky.
So, I trudge through to the interconnecting room and find a shower with a few plush soaps and stuff in it.
Because I know I’ll crash soon, I quickly wash up, wiping away the grime from the long flight.
When I’m covered in a towel, leaving my dirty clothes on the floor, I do as I’d wanted earlier.
Flop onto the bed.
As I stare up at the ceiling where light dances in from the open windows in the lounge, I smile.
The buzz of a thousand different people talking from dozens of languages—most I don’t understand—and the chiming of the bells that suddenly strike at the top of the hour? All of it energizes me.
Not in a way that means I could get up, empty my rucksack, and actually change into pajamas and dump the wet towel, but in a way that’s good for my spirit.
I’m where I’m supposed to be.
I’m where I’m needed.
He’s here.
I can feel him.
Now I just have to find him.
But knowing that I’m in the same city as him, that we’re breathing the same air, speaking the same language?
It makes my skin feel hypersensitive. As I stare up at the light flickering over the ceiling, dancing as shadows rise and fall, I have no choice but to think of him as I let my fingers drift to the part where the edges of the towel meet.
Shoving the fabric aside, I bare my flesh to the room. It feels wicked, wanton, even, to lie here with my pussy on display as I let my fingers move between my legs. But that’s what I am sometimes.
Wicked.
Watchers are fallen angels. They fell into human temptations and were