Perfect Match (Vice Club Nights #2)

2. Tori

Chapter two

Tori

I t’s impossible not to notice him the moment he collapses into the chair. And I’m not the only one who is staring. The two elderly ladies at the table closest to mine are making heart-eyes at him. I hide the smile behind my hand.

The Italian businessman impeccably dressed in a designer suit and shiny black dress shoes could command the attention of any boardroom in a big city, but here at the little family-run restaurant tucked into the shelter of the high stone wall, he is more obviously out of his natural habitat. Even the group of jovial Napolitano fishermen sitting down on the dock while cleaning their daily catch have turned in his direction.

But he seems oblivious to it all as he stares off into the distance. His chiseled profile, with a clean-shaven, strong jawline and straight nose, frozen like he’s carved from stone. A flawless man, except for his dark-brown tousled hair. Maybe the light breeze blowing in from the bay has messed it up, or more likely it’s from his own hand, which is currently drawing new tracks through the thick strands, stopping short where it kicks up against his collar. It’s a hint of vulnerability that makes him look even more handsome, if that’s even possible when his face is already jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

Italy appears to have more than its fair share of handsome men. But I could be biased as I’ve always found dark-haired men sexier than the bleach-blond surfer types that seemed to be the crowd I hung out with back home in Australia.

He leans dangerously far back in the wrought iron chair, which appears too small to hold his long-limbed, muscled body. And it’s clear there are some firm muscles hiding under the tailored suit. The navy fabric stretches across his broad shoulders and tapers to the buttoned lapels at his narrow waist. His red silk tie is still knotted at the neck of a crisp white collar, and there’s a glint of gold at his wrist as the last sunrays catch on an expensive-looking watch. He looks like that male model David Gandy striking a pose on the cover of Esquire magazine.

Staring at hot Italian men could be my new addiction. And just as bad for me as the creamy, decadent Swiss dark chocolate I was hooked on when I spent a few days in Zurich—if not more. The broody dark-haired stranger tilts his head my way, and I quickly drop my gaze to the table. The red-and-white checkered cloth taking up my full attention for a moment until I’m sure it’s clear to chance a glance back up.

When I first sat down at the café not that long ago, the area was bustling with tourists and the frenetic activity of fishermen returning home, but as the sun sinks lower on the horizon, it seems to be quieting. Couples stroll along the boardwalk, past the row of tables facing the water, and lights flicker on, illuminating the imposing walls of the Castel dell'Ovo that dominates the tiny peninsula.

It’s a beautiful sight, and I take my journal and pen from my small backpack, opening it flat to a blank page.

When I left Sydney nearly six months ago, I promised Charli that I would write daily in the gold-embossed, leather-bound book that she gave me. And so far, I’ve kept that promise.

Some days, I only manage a scattering of words that don’t even form a sentence, just a cloud of thoughts or emotions. While other days, my scribbled words fill pages. This little book has become so much more than a simple diary of my travels. Now it feels like a form of therapy that’s helping me understand why I felt the need to run away in the first place.

A familiar stab of guilt pierces my heart when I remember the day I left my sister standing all alone at Sydney Airport, and I automatically bite down on the end of the pen that’s propped between my lips. It was a selfish move on my part to insist I had to go. Charli says she understands, but it’s hard knowing how much that decision hurt her.

Being identical twins, this is the first time we’ve been apart. And whether Charli realizes it or not, I can tell from our regular FaceTime chats that our time apart has been good for her in the same way it’s been good for me. After all, my decision to travel to Europe prompted her to follow her dreams to move to New York and live with our American cousin.

Putting pen to paper, I add an entry about my day.

May 21 – Pompeii was not what I expected. It’s a lot bigger and hotter. Damn, it was hot, and I drank three bottles of water walking around the dusty cobbled-stone streets. I wanted to stay longer to see more ruins, but you’d need a week to look at everything. My favourite thing was the surprisingly intact painted walls and mosaic-tiled floors. My least favourite: the sweat dripping down my back. Disgusting!

Italy has so much history, it blows my mind. Don’t laugh, Charli, because I can feel you in my head doing just that as you say, “But you hated history in school.” You’re right, of course. It was one of our few differences. But maybe there’s a slim chance that I’m beginning to think that Italy will change my whole perspective on the subject. Everywhere you look, there is beautiful architecture, culture, and tradition that makes me want to binge-watch Roman documentaries on Netflix to learn more.

Enough on the sights, because I know you’re more interested in my food highlight. Drum roll … Today it was the lemon gelato I had after the Pompeii tour. Deliciously tangy and cold.

And that brings me to tonight: I’m back at the same table at the same little café as last night, watching the boats and a very hot Italian businessman sitting at a nearby table. I had to get some fresh, salty air after I showered Pompeii’s dusty heat off me. Besides, the pizza at this place was yesterday’s food highlight, so it was an easy choice for dinner. This pizzeria, in this moment, is quintessentially Naples. Fishing boats, great pizza, and hot Italian men. smiley face

Today was a good day!

I place my pen back down on the checkered cloth, smiling to myself, then close the book on another day. Writing to Charli feels almost as good as one of our quick chats. With a glance at my phone, I do a quick time-difference calculation between Italy and Manhattan and find it’s still too early to call. Her break at the bar where she works won’t be until after the lunchtime rush. I settle back into my chair and take a sip of the refreshing Aperol Spritz I ordered when I arrived but have ignored until now. The refreshing bite of the drink wakes up my taste buds with a zing. I already know this drink will always remind me of Italy, maybe even this place specifically.

Yes, today was a good day, and I snap a photo of the colorful boat scene on my phone before reopening my journal to start sketching the nearest one with its fire-engine red hull and thick cream stripe.

“ Ciao , Victoria! How did you enjoy Pompeii?” Emilio asks from beside me. I met him and his wife, the owners of the pizzeria, last night.

I tilt my face up to him, grinning. “Hi, Emilio. You were right; it was amazing.”

“ Bene! My cousin over there”—he uses a typical Italian hand flourish to gesture to the sexy Italian sitting by himself—“was wondering if you’d like to join him for dinner.”

“Your cousin?” I glance beyond Emilio to the man. And the full force of his gaze hits me like a bolt of electricity zipping through my veins.

My natural instinct would be to jump at the chance, but since Billy, I’m a lot more reticent to step into the unknown. I want to move on, but it’s like I’m tethered to the past and can’t break free. That, along with a tendency to be more cautious about random guys hitting on me when I’m travelling alone, makes me hesitate.

I glance toward the stranger again. He is Emilio’s cousin, and it would be nice to enjoy my pizza with the sexy businessman.

“I guess that would be fine,” I mutter.