“Yes, bachelor pad. It was tiny. Bed in one corner, stove in the other, barely enough room to move around. If I stretched, I could be stirring something on the stove top, open the front door, and have one foot on the mattress.”

I smiled to myself, thinking about his in-between years. Where he’d been, what he’d been up to in the years since Barcelona. Dubai, Jerusalem, even New York. All those years.

We arrived at his building, a four-story stone structure with a small balcony on each floor.

Pushing open a heavy oak door, we walked through a small entryway and out into a beautiful courtyard that had a fat tree with deep green leaves dotted with tiny orange fruit.

“What kind of tree is this?” I asked, leaning closer. They were oval shaped, almost the size of a thumb, and unlike anything I’d ever seen before.

“Kumquat. Have you ever tasted one?” He plucked a few fruits from the stems, holding them in his hand. “They are a little tart, a little sweet, a little citrusy—very good.”

White lights strung through the tree shone down, casting a golden glow in the night-dark courtyard. Bicycles were parked along one side, and potted tomato plants covered the opposite wall. A spiral staircase wound up to each floor, the individual apartments accessed by a shared exterior walkway, with maybe three doors on each floor. We climbed up and up, all the way to the top, where he led me to his door.

“Oh my goodness,” I breathed, stunned when he opened the door. “Marcello . . .”

This apartment was the very personification of Marcello. Oaken beams soared at least fifteen feet above the room, anchored by supporting arches that crossed the wide-planked floor. Polished concrete floors next to scarred wide-plank pumpkin pine. Open kitchen. Cozy living room. Enormous fireplace.

“This is beautiful,” I said, taking it all in. It was such a perfect mix of old and new, ancient and contemporary, past and present mixing and complementing each other perfectly.

“What is that expression, you have not seen nothing yet?”

“Close.” I laughed, looking around. “What else am I missing?”

With a secretive smile on his lips, he led me to an old barn door at the back of his kitchen. Sliding it open, he waved a hand in front of me. “Ladies first.”

A tiny staircase wound up and into darkness. With Marcello behind me, guiding me, I had no fear. At the top was an old door with a skeleton key hanging on a hook next to it. “Go ahead,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when I opened up the door. Single-guy hot tub? Playroom? Doorway to another dimension? Marcello managed to surprise me yet again.

“This is incredible.”

When I stepped onto the roof, the first thing I noticed was the overwhelming scent of flowers. Looking up I saw a wide, rustic pergola covered in bright pink bougainvillea that had been coaxed to twist and twine around the old wood. Planters filled with lemon trees, little olive trees, and more of those kumquat trees from the courtyard below. Strung above? Hundreds of little white party lights, nestled into the corners and crisscrossing above. A little farther out toward the edge were comfortable-looking couches and chaise lounges boasting an incredible view of the city.

Turning, I found him watching me, arms crossed as he leaned against a flower-covered beam. “Incredible,” I said again, stepping toward him.

“There is also a pit of fire over there,” he said, pointing to the couches that I could now see were set around an outdoor fireplace.

“How private is this?” I asked, glancing around at the neighboring buildings. That was something great about this part of town—most of the structures didn’t go above a few flights. Marcello’s had a stunning, unobstructed view of Rome. I couldn’t imagine how gorgeous this would be during sunrise.

“It is private enough,” he answered, sliding his hands across my hips and up my sides, his thumbs rubbing against my nipples as he slid my shirt off slowly.

“No brassiere,” he said hungrily, licking his lips.

I looked furtively left, then right, and still seeing not another soul up this high I threw caution, and the rest of my clothes, to the wind. “Nope.” I hooked my fingers into my skirt and slid it down, kicking it off to the side near my top.

He inhaled quickly. “No panties, either. You rode around behind me without them? All across the city?”

In response, I threw my head back and laughed, emboldened by the feeling I had in this moment. Naked, on a rooftop in Rome.

“Naughty girl,” he murmured, catching me against him and dropping kisses along my neck, my collarbone. Before he could get too far, however, I wanted to take control.

Clutching his hand, I walked him through the hanging flowers. I loved the brush of the soft petals against my skin. There was something empowering about walking naked in the hot, sticky summer air. Before Marcello, I’d never have done anything like this, but the two of us together made for an explosive combination. With this bold move, any lingering thread of Old Avery unraveled.

He kissed my fingertips as I led him across the rooftop, stopping in front of the seating area. Pulling a few pillows from the couches, I piled them onto the ground and pointed.

For a change, he did what I wanted, his eyes flashing as he lowered himself down, propping his arms behind his head, waiting.

“You’re going to have to be quiet,” I said, standing over him, cupping my breasts. I hummed, imagining that they were his hands, smoothing over me, pinching my nipples before his lips enveloped them.

“Tesoro, how you tease,” he purred, sitting up quickly.