Page 52 of My Roman Summer

“Forza!”Signora Pedretti appears in front of us with a collection of boxes and trash bags. “I had to call in a favor to get a permit for tonight, and I promised we’d clean up after.”

The others scramble. Then it’s just Giulio and me sitting on the ledge of the fountain, still thigh to thigh even when there’s now plenty of room.

“So …” he says, stretching his feet out then pulling them back again as if he’s as jittery as I am.

“So …” I echo.

“We should probably …” He gestures vaguely to where Ren is packing up the food stall.

“Help, right?” Sofia interrupts with a smirk, throwing a couple of black bags toward us.

Giulio laughs and catches them easily.

“At least it wasn’t your mum,” he whispers into my hair as he pulls me to my feet, his hand holding mine way longer than necessary. “Want to meet up on the roof terrace later?”

Ireheat my special dish in Nina’s oven—relieved I forgot to put it out with the rest of the food, since there wasn’t a crumb left after tonight’s event. Ma pads into the kitchen, freshly showered and wearing one of my oversized tees, the one I’ve been searching for since we got here. It’s a bit unfair that she borrows Nina’s and my clothes, when we wouldn’t find anything of interest, or free of cat hair, in her wardrobe.

She eyes the foil-covered dish in my oven-gloved hands. “What’s that?”

“Just … a little experiment. I’m taking it up to the terrace. Giulio and I are going to hang out for a bit.”

There, I’ve said it. And, weirdly, I’m not worried about her teasing me, or about being the clichéforeign girl falling for an Italian boy. Tonight, I feel like I’ve proven I’m more than that—to Ma, and maybe even to myself.

She must see it too because, instead of her usual cringe-inducing, no-filter comments, she simply says, “Don’t stay up too long, okay? It’s late already, and it’s back to business in the morning … thanks to you.”

Then, just when I think we’ve had a breakthrough, she grabs me for a hug, her damp hair dripping all over my shoulder as she plants a kiss on my cheek, then steps back to give it a good pinch.

As she heads off to dry her hair, I carry my offering up to the roof terrace, nudging the door open with my hip. It’s late—or early, or whatever it is when you haven’t slept for thirty-six hours—and the air is cool and refreshing for once. The city is eerily silent, too—that pause between peoplestaying out late and people getting up early, when no one is around.

Except Giulio. He’s very much here, leaning against the balustrade, watching me with a smile that makes my knees wobble.

“Ciao, Scotland,” he says softly, and I have to steady myself against the table in a moment of giddiness that has nothing to do with how little I’ve eaten.

I set the dish down and try to play it cool. But inside, my thoughts are a jumble—every glance, every smile, feels like it’s filled with more meaning than before. This meeting tonight … is intentional. There are no more games. No more secrets.

Giulio lifts a corner of the foil, releasing a bold, savory aroma. He sniffs, unsure. “Is that … lasagna?”

“Kind of … It’s haggis lasagna,” I explain, feeling like I’ve just peeled back a layer of my own skin. “A Scottish Italian fusion. Kind of … like me.”

I carve out a couple of gloopy squares, the haggis—peppery dark and smelling of spice—crumbling onto the plate. We don’t bother sitting.

Giulio hesitates, then takes a bite. He chews. Then splutters. Then takes a long deep glug of the water I brought up earlier along with the plates and cutlery.

He chokes out a small cough. “Will you be offended if I say I don’t like it?”

I burst out laughing. “Of course not … Wait, no, hang on—let me try it.” I scoop up a forkful, determined to defend my creation—but then I grimace, and reach for the water, too. “Okay, fair. That is … not right.”

He takes my plate and sets it down with his own, then gently loops his arms around me. “I might not like haggis lasagna, but I do like you.”

His hands slide to my waist, pulling me closer.

Then he looks around the roof terrace with a quick, exaggerated scan.

“What are you doing?”

“Just making sure your mum isn’t going to pop up out of nowhere,” he says with a grin.

“Why? What are you planning?” I ask … not quite pulling off the joking tone I was aiming for.

A shiver of anticipation ripples through me as his (yes, Isla, you are correct) melty, chocolate-button eyes meet mine. He leans in, and I meet him halfway. Our lips touch, and—sigh—my nose bumps against his. Of course it does. But as awkward as it is, it’s warm and real and exactly what I want.

Ma and Isla’s bet flits through my mind, and it turns out they were right after all—my first French kiss is Italian. It’s like the rest of me … a little bit of a mix. Then Giulio’s lips meet mine again, and all bets are off.