Yet flirt I did. And I liked it far too much. Definitely in a rut, I thought again. Were those baby blues of his my guiding lights, my twin lighthouses, out of that rut? A fleeting thought occurred that if I let him pull me out I might just land in a much deeper rut that I hadn’t yet seen.
I began wondering what else he was good at with women, if he was so good at flirting. The thoughts had to be some defense mechanism on my part, I figured. Some way to take my mind off the way things were. But I welcomed the distraction. It wasn’t like it was difficult or forced. Returning that smile of his felt like the most natural thing in the world.
He shook his head, that soft, black hair of his bouncing so gently and tantalizingly that my hands curled into fists against my waist. I’d never before experienced the urge to run my fingers through a stranger’s hair, but I definitely experienced it then.
That urge, and others.
“No,” he said, “Definitely American. Midwest I’d bet, were I a betting man. Wisconsin?”
I tut-tutted him. Perhaps a little too enthusiastically. He’d gotten the state wrong, but the general area correct. I found myself wanting to know more about Mr. Baby-Blues.
“It’s a good thing you aren’t a betting man, because you would have lost. Guess again.”
This time both eyebrows ticked upward in the barest display of surprise. I guess Baby-Blues wasn’t used to being wrong. Something about being the one to foil him tickled my own sense of amusement, and my smile grew, the muscles in my cheeks twitching to accommodate the long-unknown expression.
“What do I get I get if I guess correctly?” Baby-Blues said, cocking his head slightly.
I shrugged. I hadn’t really been thinking that far ahead, instead enjoying some innocent flirting for once. “What do you want?”
Baby-Blues squinted briefly at a bearded bust of Constantine the Great that sat on a pedestal a few feet to my right, examining the marbled curls of his beard and his eternally opened eyes. “Your name.”
I wondered if he knew who the bust had been sculpted after.
“And I suppose I get yours if you miss the mark again?” I replied.
He nodded. “That sounds like a fair deal to me.” I got the impression that he found something about our little interaction refreshing. I wasn’t really sure why. Maybe some subtle, unconscious stress he’d put on the words fair deal.
Just who are you, Baby-Blues? I wondered. I began to get the feeling that there was more to this guy than a flirtatious smile, nice hair, and an expensive suit. I then found myself hoping he would lose our little game so that I could get a name out of him.
So I let my hands slide down to my hips and cocked my head to the side as though the answer to my origins lay somewhere on my body, perhaps on a badly concealed tag on my red dress, or a telling tattoo normally hidden (I have no tattoos, but I wondered if he had any hidden under that Armani of his).
Except Baby-Blues didn’t accept my unspoken invitation to let his baby blues range over my body for the answer. They stayed locked on my eyes in the most disconcerting way. It was about this point I noticed that the elevator car of my anxiety had crashed in some unused sub-basement of my psyche, the cool ball it normally left in my stomach completely absent.
“Missouri,” he said, “I’m going with either Springfield or St. Louis. Which is it?”
For a moment I could do nothing but keep my jaw from dropping open in shock. I bristled again, more at myself than at him. Because I had a decision: I could lie and say he was wrong again, getting his name. Or I could concede and give him his prize.
As I considered how much I valued my honesty and integrity a few more well-dressed Italian couples sauntered into the foyer, shooting glances at the tall American man who blocked their path and forced them to move forward towards the main hall in single-file.
“You know, the longer you pause, the more I know I’m right. So which is it, Springfield or St. Louis?”
My smile turned tight-lipped. He looked so smug and secure in his knowledge. I just had to get rid of that smugness. But I couldn’t let myself lie to do it.
“Guess which,” I said, “Double or nothing.”
He brought one hand out of his pocket and used his thumb and forefinger to stroke gently at the stubble along his jaw line. He prodded at his dimpled chin in the most endearing way. I almost gave in and spilled the beans... (Do as the Romans, I admonished myself with growing amusement) rather, spilled the... what? Tomatoes? Grapes? It was a question for another time.
“Double what?” he asked.
I shrugged, giving him a taste of his own medicine with a coy grin. “First name and last.”
He balked playfully, “You mean you were only going to tell me your first name before?”
This I answered with another shrug and a wink to top it off. I really was enjoying this flirtation a little too much. I really need to get out more.
“Fine then,” he said. Again he resumed his inspecting squint, his eyes glaring into mine as though he could somehow probe the mind that lay behind them. I swallowed, realizing that the feeling in the pit of my stomach was suspense.
“It’s St. Louis,” he said finally.
This time my mouth did drop open. I’d been certain he’d guess Springfield. Certain.
“Fess up,” he said, pausing a polite moment to let my obvious shock pass.
“Wait... How did you? There’s no way you could... Are you stalking me or something?” I kept sputtering. It was the only rational answer I could come up with at that moment.
“Of course not,” he said, looking so genuinely shocked at the accusation that I couldn’t help but believe him, “Let’s leave it at reading people is a requisite for my job. So do I get my prize?”
“Yes, yes. I’m...” My throat tightened up, residual anxiety rising up from my stomach again. This is your last chance, something told me. But my last chance for what? To escape, to get away clean from my charming expat flirt here, I supposed.
The thing was, I didn’t want to escape. Well, that wasn’t true. I wanted to escape my life, escape Rome. But maybe, just maybe, I could escape into him? Into Baby-Blues’ baby blues?
Yes, I decided. Escape was just what I needed.
So I fixed my broken smile and turned it on him. “Emma. Weston,” I said, pausing between my first and last names like some robotic phone operator. “Emma Weston,” I tried again, my name suddenly sounding foreign and strange to me.
“That’s a nice name. I like it,” Baby-Blues said.
“Glad you approve,” I said, my nerves retreating enough to allow some wit. “And you are?”
He gave a wink that infuriated and exhilarated me simultaneously. “You lost fair and square. I’m under no obligation to tell you anything.”
“‘Under no obligation?’ What is this? A contract?”
“No, no. Of course not,” he spread his hands in mock supplication, “I’m Liam.”
“Liam...?” I said, raising an eyebrow at him in invitation to fill the blank space.
“Just Liam for now. Maybe you’ll get the chance to learn my last name later on,” he said, pushing his fingers into his pockets and hooking his thumbs again.
My mouth went dry and an incredible tingle that couldn’t be ignored ran up my back. It had to be my dirty mind reading into something that wasn’t there. He couldn’t possibly have been implying what I thought he was implying, could he have been?
I was sure that Liam could have his pick of any Italian belle of this particular ball, whether they were married or not. Whether their husbands were present or not. That charming smile and that mischievous twinkle in his baby blues were completely irresistible. And I knew that Liam knew that, too.
So why was he flirting with me? Not that I minded that much. Stuck in my rut as I had been, going from class to bed and bed to class and eating sometimes in between, I’d declined all forms of male advances.
Maybe I should stop doing that, I thought, feeling the pull of his charm. After all, it had been so long. Maybe I really did need to shake things up in a big way if I wanted to change my course.
I realized I’d been standing in front of Liam chewing all this over in my head. “Liam is a nice name, too.” Liam is a nice name, too!? What kind of reply is that? I berated myself.
I wouldn’t have blamed him for smiling politely, taking his leave, and disappearing into the sea of people to neither be seen nor heard from again. Perhaps just the barest glimpse of him climbing into a flaming red Lamborghini with a smoldering Italian beauty to match hanging from his arm.
I mean, I was just Emma Weston from St. Louis. Who was I to him? Nobody, that was who.
“Come on, let’s get this party started,” Liam said. He offered me one of those warm hands of his, palm up so I could see the creases of the lines crossing it as though I could tell his future from them.
You’re going to flirt with a clumsy, directionless American girl at a posh party in Rome... I started, unable to help it. I beat back against my self-deprecatory urge. He’s your way out of this rut, take it! Climb on up!
“Climb on up what?” Liam said.
My breath hitched in my throat. I’d said that last bit out loud! I couldn’t believe how far gone I was. Maybe Liam was just what I needed.