Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“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.”