What Love Tastes Like. Zuri Day

breath to catch: the deepest brown she’d ever seen, especially set against flawless skin that not only looked the color of maple syrup, but she imagined tasted as sweet. This information was absorbed and processed in the seconds it took the man two people in front of her to put his carry-on in the overhead bin and step aside so the people behind him could continue. The stranger had glanced up at her. Their eyes had held for a moment. Had she imagined his giving her a quick once-over before he resumed reading his magazine?

      Tiffany tilted back her seat and placed Tuffy on her lap. Perhaps it was the medication or the lack of sleep the prior night, but Tiffany welcomed what she hoped would be a long slumber that would take her over the Atlantic, all the way up to the landing in Rome. If she was lucky, she thought, she’d wake up with just enough time to pull her seat forward and place her tray table back in its upright and locked position. And if she was sleeping, she wouldn’t be thinking about how much she hated flying, and she especially would not be thinking about Mr. First Class. She knew she was kidding herself to think she made any kind of impression as she passed by the sexy stranger. How could she, dressed in jeans, a Baby Phat T-shirt, and clutching a tattered teddy bear? No need to sit here fantasizing. If I’m going to dream…might as well do it in my sleep!

      Dominique Rollins, or Nick as he was known to friends, put down the magazine and picked up his drink. After staring at the same page for over five minutes, he realized he wasn’t reading it anyway. For some inexplicable reason, his mind kept wandering to the woman back in coach, the sexy siren who’d passed him clutching a teddy bear as if she were five instead of the twentysomething she looked. His guess was that she was afraid of flying and the toy was some type of childhood relic, like a security blanket. But to carry it openly, in public, holding it as if it were a lifeline? Too bad, because that chick is fine as chilled wine in the summertime. Nick appreciated the stranger’s natural beauty, but he liked his women successful and secure. Not that he was looking for women on this trip, he reminded himself. He wanted a carefree few days without any complications. Nick knew all too well that when it came to the words “woman” and “complication,” one rarely appeared without the other.

      Her eyes… Nick tilted his seat back and sipped his Manhattan. That was what intrigued him about her. In them was a curious blend of trepidation and intelligence, of anxiety mixed with steely resolve. The combination brought out his chivalrous side. A part of him wanted to walk back to where she was, sit her on his lap, and tell her that everything was going to be all right. His rational side quickly shot down that idea. One, she was a stranger; two, she’d hardly appreciate being treated like a child, clutched teddy bear notwithstanding; and three, Nick wasn’t in the market for a woman—friend or otherwise—he reminded himself for the second time in as many minutes. He was grateful for his work and the newest acquisition that had helped to take his mind off Angelica, the woman who’d dashed his dream of their getting married and having a family together…and broken his heart.

      Nick signaled the flight attendant for another drink and reached for his iPod. He didn’t want to think about Angelica on this trip. He wanted to enjoy this mini-vacation in Rome, one of his favorite cities, and dine at AnticaPesa, one of his favorite restaurants and the inspiration behind the upscale eatery in his newly acquired boutique hotel.

      Thinking about the quaint, thirty-four-room property he and his partners had purchased in Malibu, California, and were transforming into a twenty-first-century masterpiece brought a smile to Nick’s face. Following the global economic collapse, the men had outwitted their corporate competition and had gotten an incredible deal on the 1930s Spanish-style building. The group, four successful men with diverse and various corporate and entrepreneurial backgrounds, all agreed that it was the good looks and sexy swagger of Nick and another partner, Bastion Price, that sealed the deal with the sixty-something, hard-as-nails Realtor who’d handled negotiations. This trip was the calm before the storm of Le Sol’s grand opening, less than one month away.

      Nick pressed the button that reclined his seat to an almost fully horizontal position. He tried to relax. But every time his eyes closed, he saw the short-haired, chocolate brown, doe-eyed beauty who’d passed him hours before, with those hip-hugging jeans and bountiful breasts pressed up against a tight, pale yellow T-shirt. You’re flying to Rome for pasta, not pussy, he mentally chastised himself. Even so, his appetite had been awakened, and the dish he wanted to taste wasn’t from anybody’s kitchen.

      2

      Tiffany took a deep breath and tried not to panic. Her purse had been here just a minute ago, in the basket of her luggage cart, right next to her laptop. She mentally retraced her footsteps in her mind, remembering specific moments when she knew she’d had the Coach bag her mother had given her for Christmas. She’d definitely had it as she exited the plane, had fiddled with the strap as she and the handsome stranger shared casual pleasantries when finding themselves separated only by a rope as they snaked through the customs line. She’d looked in her purse, prepared to boldly give the man her phone number, but his turn had come up before she could find paper and pen. She remembered carefully putting her passport back in her purse after they’d stamped it, her mother’s words echoing in her head: Treat that passport as if it’s the key out of that country, because it is.

      “Yes, I had it then,” she said to herself as she remembered her purse being the last thing she placed on the luggage cart, after loading on two heavy suitcases, a carry-on, her laptop, and Tuffy. Then she’d rolled out of the baggage claim area in search of ground transportation. That’s when a young woman who looked American but spoke with an accent had approached her and asked for the best way to get to the tourist sites in the city center. When Tiffany said she didn’t know, the woman had excitedly gone on about it being her first time in Rome and admitting how nervous she was to be there by herself. Tiffany could relate. She was nervous as well. She’d felt a kinship with the foreigner, and at the time had thought the woman’s shifting eyes were due to nervousness. Now she knew it was due to something else. That bitch was watching out for an accomplice.

      “She took my purse!” Tiffany yelled, before even realizing she was speaking out loud. Several pairs of eyes turned to stare at her, but she was too panicked to feel embarrassment. “Help, those people stole my purse!”

      Belatedly, Tiffany decided to give chase, her heavily laden luggage cart careening wildly through Rome’s Fiumicino Airport. She steered the clumsy vehicle as if she were back on the streets of LA, doing a drive-by.

      “Excuse me,” she said to a woman whom she accidentally bumped in the butt, almost knocking her over. “Coming through!” she yelled as an older gentleman decided to stop and tie his shoe. She managed to bring the cart to a halt just before she broadsided him, stopping so quickly that her carry-on toppled off the cart and Tuffy flew forward and hit the man in the head. “My bad,” she said to the bewildered man, who began berating her in rapid-fire Italian. “No-a speakie, no-a speakie,” she replied as she gathered up her bag and her bear and began again in the direction she thought the woman had gone.

      Five minutes later, she gave up the chase. The woman was nowhere in sight and now Tiffany doubted she could even recognize her in a line-up. Was her hair dark blond or brown? Was she wearing a blue top…or was it purple? The woman was Tiffany’s height, five foot three, but Tiffany didn’t remember whether she wore jeans or slacks, or a skirt, for that matter. She’d had colosseums, not criminals, on her mind as they’d talked.

      “Damn.” Tiffany plopped down on her luggage and put her head in her hands. She could feel the beginnings of an anxiety attack coming on and tried to focus on breathing deeply. But the gravity of the situation began to grow in her mind. She was in a foreign country, alone, with no passport, no money, and no idea how she’d gone from triumph to tragedy so quickly. She’d been so proud of herself as she’d stepped off the plane, having made it through her first trans-Atlantic flight without throwing up or peeing on herself—both unfortunate events that had accompanied past panic attacks. Now she was precariously close to achieving a trifecta, because in addition to these two scene-stealers, she felt ready to throw a two-year-old tantrum and assure herself a place in one of Rome’s asylums for the insane. Tiffany began to shake with the effort it took to hold herself together. Trying not to hyperventilate—on top of not vomiting, peeing,