Roman Crazy

  Praise for the hilariously fun

  ROMAN CRAZY

  “There are books that make you laugh out loud, make you teary, make you hot and bothered, make you smile. And then there are books that make you want to crawl inside them and live within their pages. That’s what Roman Crazy is.”

  —New York Times bestselling author of the Tangled series, Emma Chase

  “I went CRAZY over Roman Crazy—this is simply a perfect romance!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Probst

  “Roman Crazy is a laugh out loud romantic comedy about second chances, friendship, and the beauty of Rome. You won’t simply read this novel, you’ll devour it as Alice Clayton and Nina Bocci transport you to Italy and guide you on an unforgettable adventure.”

  —Sylvain Reynard, New York Times, USA Today, and #1 international bestselling author of Gabriel’s Inferno and the Florentine series

  “Nina Bocci and Alice Clayton wrote a grown-up romance that is heartfelt, sexy, and transportive. As a bonus, the city of Rome is as much of a character as the swoony Marcello and the relatable Avery.”

  —Jen Frederick, USA Today bestselling author

  “Roman Crazy is a sexy, steamy slow burn. Pack your suitcase and get ready for a wild ride through the streets of Rome with a hot-as-sin leading man. I want to clone Marcello and keep him forever. A visceral reading experience that takes you from the cobbled streets of Rome to the bedroom and everywhere in between. Get your fans out! Five stars of smolder.”

  —Helena Hunting, New York Times bestselling author

  “Bocci and Clayton know how to craft an amazing romance! The beautiful descriptions of Rome will make you feel like you are on vacation. This book it a spa visit and a best friend all wrapped up into a funny, sexy, life-affirming bundle. 1-Click the heck out of Roman Crazy.”

  —Debra Anastasia, author of the Poughkeepsie series

  “Roman Crazy is a sexy, delicious tour through Italy as well as the human heart. Marcello and Avery are as impossible to resist as a double scoop of gelato. Like fine Italian food, Roman Crazy should be gobbled up as quickly as possible.”

  —Sarina Bowen, USA Today bestselling author of Rookie Move

  “Nina Bocci and Alice Clayton bring Italy to life with this hilarious, sexy, and emotional book full of yummy food and even yummier men. Get ready to laugh, cry and swoon!”

  —Elle Kennedy, New York Times bestselling author

  Thank you for downloading this Gallery Books eBook.

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  To everyone who reads romance. Spread the love. The world needs it.

  WE WOULD LIKE TO THANK the incomparable Micki Nuding for helping us on the first leg of the Roman Crazy journey. You saw what Marcello and Avery could be and sent us on the path to get there. Seriously Micki, we hope you’re loving retirement because we miss the hell out of you. P.S. that’s us knocking on the front door, we brought wine!

  To the super-sassy, hilarious, and straightforward Lauren McKenna, who doesn’t pull any punches. We wouldn’t be here without you and we adore the hell out of you; thank you for taking us on. To the remarkably patient and fabulous Marla Daniels for not laughing at some of the emails that we’ve sent. These two women deserve medals and enough wine to fill a river. Thank you both for kicking our asses into making this book what it is today. Seriously, we’re sending wine and cookies. That’s us down at the security check-in. They won’t let us in. Help.

  To the incredible team at Gallery Books, good Lord you have made this a fun experience. Louise Burke, Jen Bergstrom, Theresa Dooley, Liz Psaltis, Diana Velasquez, the XOXO After Dark ladies, Abby Zidle and Kate Dresser, the audio crew, Sarah Leiberman and Louisa Solomon for giving Avery a real voice that shines. To the production staff: John Paul Jones (best name ever), Faren Bachelis (we’re so sorry about all the dangling participles), Alicia Brancato, Davina Mock-Maniscalco (those chapter ornaments are to die for)—you deserve all the cookies. All of them. And the wine. Can we send wine?

  To Kristin Dwyer, the most kick-ass and most extraordinary publicist, as well as the most tolerant human being ever, for putting up with all of the batshit emails and never telling us to calm our shit. We love you more than the banana cake from Magnolia. Which is a lot.

  To our Captain Hookers, Lolo and PQ. Thank you for your friendship. For the laughs and the cries and the hysterical bouts of laughter on the rides at WDW and DL. Thank you for reading and loving this. Here’s to a Captain Hooker trip to Italia. We thank Stephenie every day for bringing all of us together and we couldn’t love you two more. We’ll meet you with some wine and cranberry juice at the Tower of Terror. We need to beat the 9-ride record.

  Christina Hogrebe, our agent and Sweet Valley High soul sister. Thank you so much for everything you did for this book. You loved Marcello first! And to the team at the Jane Rotrosen Agency, cheers to you all for keeping us sane through this whole process. You guessed it, we’re bringing the wine.

  To the lovely and fabulous people whom we are humbled to call our friends: Sylvain Reynard, Emma Chase, Jennifer Probst, Elle Kennedy, Jen Frederick, Debra Anastasia, Helena Hunting, and Leisa Rayven. They pre-read this book in every form imaginable and some of it was scary. Missing scenes, crazy half-assed sentences, and the backward chapter we managed to send.

  Plus, our dear Italian friend Marinella, for everything she did to make it accurate.

  To Heather Carrier from HEA Designs, Simone Renou from In My Dreams Designs, and Gel from Tempting Illustrations for the kick-ass graphics work. Sim and Gel, we can’t send wine to your countries but you better be certain that we’re drinking it with Heather in honor of you ladies. RT next year, we’re all getting pickled. A sweet and adorable thank-you to Stephanie from Sweets by Steph for the beautifully perfect Roman Crazy cookies.

  The fandom from which we met will forever be a span of time that we’re both eternally grateful for. Without it, we wouldn’t have met each other and become the bestest of best friends or met all of you, whom we adore. Thank you, friends and readers, for following the two of us on this fun journey.

  A special note from Nina: For all of my friends who tirelessly blog and review the world of romance. You have all worked with me from the beginning, and I for one can never thank you enough for everything that you do. You guys were so excited when I announced that we were writing this book together and it was the best feeling in the world to have you want to read something from me that wasn’t a flaily email about how much I loved a book. From the worldwide messages of congrats, to the emails asking “what can I do for you?”, I will forever be grateful for everything you guys do to bring the love of romance to as many readers as possible.

  Keep on spreading the love. The world really needs it.

  See you next time.

  xoxo

  Nina & Alice

  I  WAS STARING AT A penis.

  I was staring at a penis, and yet I couldn’t actually comprehend what I was seeing. Which was weird, because technically that penis in question belonged to me. Not in the anatomical sense, but in the marital sense. As in, I’m familiar with that penis, I know that penis, I’m married to that penis, except . . . this penis is, in fact, doing something it really shouldn’t be doing.

  Which was my husband’s secretary. Correction: administrative assistant. I was reminded of this fact last Christmas when I inadvertently introduced her to my mother-in-law as, “This is Daniel’s secretary.” She took the time to tell me her prefe
rred title, which I appreciated, since I was ever so thoughtful when I came to visit my husband in his place of business.

  His place of business where he was currently putting his penis into his administrative assistant.

  It’s amazing how the human brain can compartmentalize when in shock. And speaking of being in shock, what they were doing couldn’t be good for that Chippendale antique desk I’d spent weeks scouring the finest stores and auction houses all over the greater Boston area to acquire so that my attorney husband would be able to host potential clients in a well-appointed office. An office that conveyed just the right amount of trustworthiness, attention to detail, and values above all, with just a touch of contemporary expertise.

  And while I was compartmentalizing on the Aubusson rug, my husband of eight years was fucking his administrative assistant on that very desk. With a penis that belonged to me.

  And not just fucking, creatively fucking. As in, bent over that desk. As in, pulling her hair. As in, riding her hard. As in, finding the little man in the canoe and making sure he came. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been creatively fucked by Daniel.

  A Sunday afternoon after golf maybe once a month was what I got. Nothing creative. Now I see why.

  I quietly shut the door, walked across the room with as much grace as I could muster, picked up the 2013 Red Sox World Series commemorative marble-tipped bat, and . . .

  “Yeeeeooowwwww!”

  WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”

  “Well hello to you, too. I guess you’re not dead. Jesus Christ, with the nine calls, four emails, and more ASAP texts than I can count, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect,” my best friend huffed good-naturedly. “Nice to know you’re still breathing.”

  “I wouldn’t have called, emailed, and texted if I weren’t still breathing, Daisy.”

  “Don’t you Daisy me in that tone. Did you forget I was in Patagonia?”

  “As in the clothing company?”

  “As in Argentina; remember, I told you I was going for work, and then you sang songs from Evita for several minutes? Also, don’t sing anything from Evita. For any amount of minutes. Anyway, Patagonia. Do you know how far away from literally everything that is? Look at the tip of the earth and move a smidge to the left. There’s barely electricity there, let alone a quality cell signal.” I had to hold the phone away from my ear slightly, as she was really getting worked up. “I was on a flight back that took a thousand years, got home, fell into bed, and am just now surfacing. I barely know what time zone I’m in.”

  Argentina. Evita. I did remember that. Now. I’ve been so wrapped up in hastily scheduled appointments with a divorce attorney I spaced out on it.

  Wow. Divorce attorney. Never thought I’d be here.

  Really? You never thought it?

  Thank goodness I didn’t have to answer that question right now. Daisy was still chattering in my ear about time zones and kids not being allowed in first class on transatlantic flights. Topics she was uniquely qualified to discuss.

  My best friend, Daisy, was an architect, and currently living in Rome. She specialized in the environmental side, retrofitting, green technology, making old buildings work in the modern world without sacrificing the integrity of the original shell. I spied that last part on her business card on one of her few trips stateside. She traveled the world, met exciting people, was fiercely loyal to her friends, and one of my favorite people ever.

  “I’m trying to kick the last of the jet lag out of my system with a jog, so I’m finishing up a run through the Borghese gardens. It’s blissfully empty of tourists at this time of day so I figured I’d call now. So, what’s with blowing up my phone?”

  “I’m leaving Daniel,” I stated simply, dropping the bomb as I handed off the keys to the valet and headed into the country club to meet my mother-in-law. She had her housekeeper call me to request a meeting. On her turf. She didn’t actually say that, but it was certainly implied.

  “Wait, what? You couldn’t have said what I think you said.”

  “You heard me. I’m leaving Daniel. Or, I should say, technically, left.”

  Grinning wide, I passed the greeter who held the door open. The answering smile I got back was thin at best. No doubt I was on some sort of blacklist, considering the word must already be out about the marital difficulties of one of their most prestigious members. Daniel’s family had belonged to this club since its inception. Naturally, the tribe was rallying around one of their own.

  The two college kids at the coat check seemed to want to come out from behind the counter. To stop me perhaps? But their manners kicked in, and I strode with purpose past them. The greeter in the pro shop, however, scurried behind the desk and got out of sight.

  Chickenshits.

  “Hold on, just hold on a minute,” Daisy asked, sounding out of breath. “Lemme stop.” I pictured her then, jogging along the cobblestoned streets with her skintight yoga pants, turning handsome Italian heads with every stride. “Oh, Avery,” she sighed. She was never a big fan of Daniel, not even when we started dating back in college, but she never would wish this upon me.

  “Yep.” Glancing around the Sunset Lounge for my guest, I explained. “Well, more accurately, I tossed all of his shit into the pool.”

  A woman admonished me with a Waspy how-dare-you look, while her husband turned up his hearing aid. I took a seat at the bar in the lounge and waited.

  “You didn’t!” Daisy cried, still breathing hard but with a definite tone of excitement in her voice. “In the pool?”

  “Oh, I did, and it was glorious.”

  “Okay, but what the hell happened that made you leave him?” She paused a moment. “Wow, that’s weird to say.”

  “What, that I left Daniel?” I found that once I said it, I wanted to repeat it. And often. I left Daniel. Good god damn, it had a nice ring to it. I sang it like Ethel Merman in my head. I rapped it like Eminem.

  I knew eventually the rage would segue into sadness, but for right now, I was cruising on sheer anger. I wondered idly if others could get a contact high . . .

  Speaking of high, my usual Bloody Mary appeared in a tall glass. And on the side, along with my celery, came an encouraging smile from the female bartender on the other side of a mile of polished mahogany. The first sign I’d seen since arriving at the club that someone, anyone, might be on my side in all this.

  “Don’t back down,” she whispered, and lifted her chin toward the door.

  Looking as though she had just stepped out of Fashion Week, there stood my soon-to-be ex-mother-in-law. Her chignon was low, her tits were high, and her smile was lethal. Oh, and she sparkled. Not from being a wonderful person who emitted positive energy, but because she was iced in so much jewelry. In fact, it looked like she was wearing all of her jewelry. At once.

  Somewhere in the world, Mr. T sighed in envy.

  “Bitsy is here. I’ll call you back,” I whispered.

  “No, no! Don’t you dare! I’ve got to hear this! Put me on mute! I’ll listen in, very secret agent. Or teenagers. Or teenage secret agents! We could be—”

  “Oh, would you hush,” I said, rolling my eyes but muting it nonetheless. Setting the phone on the bar, I turned to meet the firing squad.

  “Avery,” she said, her sharp blue eyes narrowed at the bartender.

  Sitting up straighter on the stool, I sipped my drink. “Can I get you something?”

  She sniffed a bit, looking down her long patrician nose at the stool, but in the end decided to actually take a seat. Settling onto it with a graceful air, she turned to me and Botox grinned. She must have just had an appointment. Everything south of her hairline was stiff, smooth, and unmoving. The sun streamed in from behind me, lighting up her neck, ears, and fingers.

  “Heading to the pawn shop?” I quipped, taking another sip. The bartender snorted loudly from her perch sliding wineglasses into the rack.

  Another crippling “grin.” “You know, I never much cared for your equivoque.”

/>   This. This right here. Equivoque. Who the hell used words like that? With that opening volley, however, I could tell it was one of those conversations. It reminded me of when we first met at Thanksgiving dinner my sophomore year at BU. I was so nervous. Crippled by anxiety because they were the Boston Remingtons and I was dating, and doing some decidedly dirty things with, their precious son. My family’s no slouch, don’t get me wrong, but it’s like comparing Mark Cuban with Bill Gates. There’s money and then there’s money.

  “Yes, I’m sure Daniel was thinking of my equivoque as he was giving it to his secretary,” I answered back, just as haughtily.

  “I always forget how funny you think you are, Avery. Daniel always was fond of your sense of humor,” she said, wrapping her jewel-encrusted hand around the glass of chardonnay that appeared. Her expression told me she was singularly unamused by my quick wit.

  With a flick of the wrist, she dismissed the bartender, getting down to business.

  Displeasure tried—to no avail of course—to furrow her brow. Her brow may never move again. But it was clear she was ready to say what she came here to say. “Things happen in a marriage. In all marriages. It surprises me that you would take this to heart. To throw in the towel so quickly over something like this.”

  “Something like this? You mean catching him with the secretary isn’t towel worthy in your world?” I asked incredulously.

  She took a sip of her chardonnay, looking around the room unconcernedly. We could have been discussing soufflé recipes for all the emotion she was showing. “It’s your world, too. Don’t forget that Remingtons don’t get divorced.”

  “Bitsy, I’m not sure why you’ve come today, but I can assure you, if it has anything to do with taking Daniel back, I’m uninterested.”

  “I’ve come to explain a few things.” She shifted in her seat, tilting her body away from the prying eyes that were gathering.