Page 11 of Royal Valentine

“I’m fully awake. It’s just ... I know exactly how you feel,” I told him. “The only thing my extended family seems to care about is me not tarnishing the family name.”

“How would you embarrass them?” He sounded genuinely confused.

“It’s a very long story.” And it would involve me having to tell him the truth.

Which I strangely found myself wanting to do.

After a moment’s hesitation he reached for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. My nervous system lit up like a switchboard, exuberant over this situation.

“I’d like to hear it, if you wish to share it,” he said. “I want to ken everything about you.”

“I want to know everything about you, too,” I whispered back, leaning against his arm, holding on to him tightly. Thehours we’d spent talking and sightseeing had flown by, and despite the fact that I’d just met him, I felt like I’d known him my whole life.

A taxi came and we climbed into the back seat, still holding hands. I asked him about the gallery.

“It’s a small place. As I mentioned, I met the man who runs it at a party a few months ago, and after he looked at my website, he said he wanted to show some of my photographs.”

“Website?” I repeated.

“Aye. With my portfolio.”

I was cursing the fact that I’d sent my phone back with Anne. I wanted to look him up.

“Was your phone stolen? I noticed that you didnae have one.”

“When you went through my things?” I asked teasingly, attempting to deflect.

“I was trying to discover who you were, to see if you had a phone with an emergency contact number on it. I wasnae trying to invade your privacy.”

“I know that,” I said. “I was giving you a hard time.”

“As I’ve already told you, I have three older brothers to do that,” he said, and I laughed.

“Since you want to make up for your gross invasion of my privacy, could I borrow your phone? I have someone I want to check in with.”

He handed it to me without hesitation and I sent a text to Anne’s number. I’d been forced to memorize a plethora of numbers, including Luigi’s, as a security precaution. I tried to keep my message vague.

I’m texting from a friend’s phone. Just wanted to let you know that everything is going great. How are you?

She responded immediately and seemed to understand my stealthy vibe.

All quiet on the Western Front. Looking forward to seeing you soon. Text/call when you need a ride home.

I gave the cell back to Callum and he tucked it into his pocket, then quickly went back to holding my hand. As if he’d missed the contact in the tiny bit of time it had taken me to text.

We arrived at the gallery, and for the first time that day, he didn’t seem entirely confident and sure of himself.

So I tugged his hand as I walked into the gallery. “Which way?” I asked.

“To the left,” he said.

We walked around a corner, and I found myself struck by the urge to gasp again. “You’re an artist,” I told him. “Look at your composition. The lighting. The way you frame things. The use of negative space here. You have an incredible attention to detail.”

He smiled shyly and it was so endearing.

The next photo was one that he’d taken of a sunrise with the light and the city of Rome out of focus and an elderly couple holding hands in the lower right third of the foreground, separating them from the background by having them in focus. They looked like they were very much in love. “You have such a unique perspective. There’s so much emotion in your photos,” I said, letting out a deep breath. “Beautiful.”

“And here I was thinking the same thing,” he said, his gaze pointed at me.

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