Page 15 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

GRAB LIFE BY THE MEATBALLS

Axel

After dropping off our luggage, Hazel and I trek to the Piazza Navona and snag a table at a sunny sidewalk café with a view of La Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi. The afternoon sun paints the fountain with a rosy hue.

Hazel breathes it all in with a blissful expression.

“No wonder you have fountains in your books,” she says, appreciatively. “They’re gorgeous.”

Aesthetics aren’t the reason, but no need to unpack the real motivation. I’d rather eat, then eat up the rest of the day so we’re ready for tomorrow.

“I like fountains,” I say in an understatement.

“Me too,” she says. Maybe sleepiness softens her up, since she’s warmer with me than she’s been on the trip so far.

Or maybe it was the car nap.

As we settle in at the table, she opens the menu with a flourish, spreading it across the red and white checkered tablecloth. “It’s my nemeses lunch,” she declares.

“Enjoy it, sweetheart. Because it’ll be the last time it happens,” I say.

“Everyone trips on their words sometimes,” she points out.

“I don’t,” I say smugly.

“I can’t wait for your next fumble,” she says, then stabs the menu.

“And I already know I want my next lunch here. Check out the pastas. Trenette al pesto, pasta alla norma, mushroom ravioli, pasta puttanesca.” She looks up, her green eyes glittering with culinary lust. “No wonder you spent so much time here researching books over the years. I’d have stayed in Italy just for the pasta. ”

For a few seconds, I brace myself for a dig about my escape to Europe.

But it doesn’t come. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure she was referencing my pants-on-fire departure to Europe when she made that comment at the airport about some of us jetting off to Europe on a whim.

She might have just been talking about the fact that I’ve visited Europe a lot for story research.

Her sorry then was probably just about the general comment and her worries of how it might have come across, not because it was a low blow. Since it wasn’t a low blow.

I relax my shoulders.

She salivates over the options for another minute then snaps the menu closed. “It’s official. Nemeses has earned me two lunches.”

I shake my head. “Nope. One lunch only.”

“Maybe I’ll order two dishes then,” she says, always wanting the last word.

But when the server arrives, she orders only the puttanesca. I choose a pizza, because…when in Rome. Then I ask for two espressos.

After he leaves, she lifts a questioning brow.

“I have to caffeinate you,” I explain.

She taps the veins on the inside of her wrist. “Just inject it right here please.” Then she takes a deep breath and looks around the piazza, bustling with tourists snapping pictures throughout the square. “So why’d you drag me a mile away instead of someplace closer to the hotel?”

All part of my plan to keep her busy. To enjoy some vitamin D. “I figured if we were outside in public, you wouldn’t dare fall asleep on me again,” I say, then grin.

She narrows her eyes, and I gird myself for an arrow dipped in poison. But instead, like she’s blameless, she says, “Look, you have a nice lap. It’s soft.”

I roll my eyes. “Great. Just great. I want to be known for my soft lap.”

Her lips twitch. “I won’t tell a soul it’s like a pillow.”

“I’m so glad I’m helping you fight jet lag,” I say dryly. The server swings by with the espressos. I ask for one more with the pizza.

“Of course,” he says.

After he leaves, she lifts her little cup in a toast. “To staying awake by the fountains.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

We clink and down our espressos.

She sets her cup on the table and nods toward the fountain attracting flocks of tourists. “Since you’ve plied me with espressos and sunshine, maybe we can take a quick tour of all the piazzas and fountains today?” She sounds so hopeful, and it tugs on my locked-up heart. “That one is gorgeous.”

“That’s called the Fountain of the Four Rivers. Designed by Bernini. Commissioned by Pope Innocent X,” I say as she gazes at the baroque beauty in the middle of the square. I can’t help it. I love history.

Hazel turns to me. “Seriously. I’ve never been to Rome. Can we fit in a few?”

I smile. “Eat fast, sweetheart.”

The first fountain I take her to is located in an alley only a few steps away from the Piazza Navona. The Fontana dei Libri, or Fountain of Books, is a smaller fountain, carved into a brick wall. A stone deer head rests in the center, flanked by huge stone books that spurt water.

I tell her the story of the fountain that pays homage to the universities in Rome, then the deer head with its religious origins. “But mostly I think the point is knowledge flows from books,” I say, gesturing to the water pouring from the stone pages.

She sighs contentedly. “Then this is a perfect fountain for me to make a wish at.”

I scoff. Hazel makes wishes? “Seriously?”

“You don’t believe in wishes, Huxley? C’mon. You’re not that grumpy.”

Wishes are so not my thing. Actions are. But that sounds douchey, so I keep it to myself. “I only wish upon stars,” I deadpan.

With a smile, she reaches into her travel purse and plucks out a few coins. “Here you go, then. This wish is on me.”

“So generous,” I say as I take the penny, then flip it over a few times between my thumb and index finger. “You really want me to make a wish?”

“Yes!”

“For real?”

“We’re at a fountain,” she says, then scans the alley, which is surprisingly quiet. “I won’t tell a soul you made a wish. I’ll protect your grumpster rep.”

“Thanks,” I say, then fiddle with the coin some more, unsure what to wish for, unsure if I should even wish.

Fountains and me, we have a complicated history.

But then, so do Hazel and I.

She tosses her coin into the water with relish, like she enjoys the plink of the metal against the liquid.

“What’d you wish for?” I ask.

She gives me a look, like don’t try to pull that . “I can’t tell you or it won’t come true.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” I ask, with a doubtful rise of my eyebrows.

“Of course I do,” she says, adamant. Huh. She does believe in wishing rules. Who would have thought?

“Hazel Valentine, are you… superstitious ?”

“With some things, yes.”

Holy shit. This is excellent fodder. I can use this to poke and prod her. I need new ammo. “Do you avoid black cats, ladders, and opening umbrellas in houses?”

“Why would I need to open an umbrella in a house? It’s never raining inside.”

Fair point. “But the others?”

With a smile, she shakes her head. “No. I only believe in wishes,” she says, soft, almost under her breath.

Like she’s embarrassed to admit it.

This is going to be so good for me. I push on. “What about eyelashes? Do you wish on eyelashes that fall?”

“I do,” she says with a genuine smile.

“And dandelions?” I ask, delighted by this charming fact.

“Yep,” she says in that same vulnerable tone.

And dammit.

That tone makes it impossible for me to tease her about wishes now.

Especially since it’s too hard to look at her right now, with that softness in her lips, that warmth in her eyes.

Instead, I turn to the gurgling water, and I flick the coin into it, making a wish for the trip—a wish that’s entirely in my control. I can make this wish come true all on my own.

“What’d you wish for?” she asks as we leave the alley.

“You told me not to tell a wish.”

“I know. But it’s a natural human impulse to ask what someone’s wish is after they make it.”

“When you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

She huffs. “Fine. When mine comes true, I’ll tell you what it was.” She offers a hand to seal the deal.

Once again, we shake hands.

Once again, I wonder what it would feel like to yank her against me.

If she asks again about my wish, I’ll lie.

Once again.