When in Rome (When in Rome, #1)

by Sarah Adams

I laugh so loud at his suggestion that he winces. Oh dear, that was rude. I clear my throat. “Sorry. No. Thank you…But no,” I say it solemnly this time.

The last thing I need is some privileged pop star running up my electricity bill.

“Uh…hi…is…Tommy there?” I ask, glancing down at the paper to make sure I got the name right, even though I’ve read it roughly twenty times now and might be pregnant with its babies due to all the caressing.

What an excellent Buckingham palace guard he’d be.

I feel jealous of his ability to just say things. He says only the things he wants and not a single word more.

He doesn’t find me charming. I’m the most uncharming person in the world to him, and I think I love it.

“You guessed it, Nancy Drew. I own a pie shop.”

“Have you never loved something just for what it means to you?”

That man wants to get rid of me more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

I wish I could train my face to be as frowny and stoic as his—deliver

my jokes with wit so dry the single strike of a match would send it all up in flames, but I can’t. I’m a cheeseball, smiling the entire time I say it.

Geez, has Susan always been this much of a steamroller? I feel flattened to the ground.

“Cavemen don’t need phones anyway.” He places a pair of pj’s into my hands.

hehehe

These ladies talk at a clip that only the most seasoned of listeners can keep up with.

“Why the hell do you need his permission? Last I checked he doesn’t own the place. Well, he does own this place, but he doesn’t own Hank’s. So will you come with us?”

No one can accuse this man of not being honest. He’s all blunt and zero sugar. He’s fantastic.

“Careful!” I yell at his closed door. “You almost left enough room for me to dart in under your feet that time!”

If Susan could see me now, bobbing around on this pitch-black back road in the bed of a truck with no seat belt, looking like a popcorn kernel in a pan, she’d die. She’d just keel over on the spot.

I want to burrow my way into their little family and beg for them to make fun of me like they do each other. I want them to skewer me with the obvious truths about myself that I don’t see.

“She kinda reminds me of a puppy. All lost and sad. Please will you keep her, Noah? Pleeeeease,” says Annie,

It’s not infatuation. Not even lust. It’s the worst of all the feelings…care. Care is reckless because it doesn’t come with the seat belt that selfishness offers. Care has so much to lose,

“I own a pie shop. You think I give a shit about man cards?”

“I don’t know what to think about you, Noah.” I pick up my keys. “Just don’t think about me at all and you’ll be fine.”

I need to start making a list of things I don’t like about Noah just to keep myself from truly falling

“You look very pretty.” I feel a smile in my soul before it reaches my lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” “It is for me.”

“She had to! She had a duty to her country. She couldn’t just stay in Rome with him forever. She had to go, Em.”

“Tell your girlfriend I can’t wait for our lunch date. Love you!”

It physically hurts now how smitten I am with Noah. I can’t take much more.

And what I’m thinking is I’d like to climb right up that sturdy man.

“I’m so country now I don’t hear my own voice in my head, it’s just Reese Witherspoon and Dolly Parton talking in there.”

I think Noah can see right through to my bones.

“To me, you’re Amelia. Maker of shitty pancakes and a smile that rivals the sun. All I want is you.”

“In fact, I think I’ll just work here…with you.” “I’m not hiring.” He pauses. “Besides, I’ve seen your baking skills.”