Kiss Me Goodnight in Rome (The Senior Semester Series Book 2) by Gina Azzi Page A

Let’s do this!”
    * * *
    The strong scent of cigars and cologne assaults me when I walk through the front entrance of the club, once again clinging to Lexi’s arm. She had smiled wide at the bouncer at the door, fluttering her eyelashes, and twirling a piece of hair around her finger. He held the velvet rope open for us immediately. What is it with all the clubs here and their velvet ropes? Just open the freaking door.
    “Come on! Let’s get a drink!” Lexi shouts to me over the music, dragging me to the bar. She leans over the top of the bar, perching on her tippy toes, allowing her boobs to practically fall out of her dress. Within a second, a bartender is doting on her, taking her order.
    Lexi leans closer to the bartender, essentially whispering our order in his ear. I laugh to myself. I don’t know how she does it. She flips her hair over her shoulder expertly, taking a step back after placing our order. I slide my card across the bar before she has time to dig hers out of her purse.
    “Thanks.” She smiles at me, teetering dangerously in her insanely high wedges. Under normal circumstance, I would worry that she would turn an ankle or fall flat on her face once she starts drinking, but I’ve seen Lexi in action over the past month; somehow, she walks better in heels, or wedges, or even in sandals the drunker she gets.
    I look down at my own dress, smoothing my hands down the front, frowning at the bulge around my waist. At least I opted for simple sandals, ensuring I can dance without turning an ankle or face planting no matter how much I drink.
    When Lexi passes me a glass of prosecco, I smile at her and take a sip. Turning to face the dance floor, I rest my back against the bar. I feel incredibly self-conscious being in a club like this; it’s nothing like the college bar scene from McShain University. Although the glasses of wine I downed before arriving here are definitely helping to loosen me up, I still feel incredibly out of place.
    While I’m used to the jeans and hoodies and Greek letters that the athletes and frat guys’ sport, I’m unfamiliar with the tailored dress shirts, cufflinks, and leather loafers the Italians wear. While I understand the significance of red Solo cups and Marlboro Menthols, the sleek martini glasses and Cuban cigars confuse me. Definitely out of my comfort zone, I perch against the bar while Lexi chats up the hot guy standing next to her. To avoid looking like the third-wheel in this scenario, I immerse myself in active people watching, quickly transforming into the observer role I’m best at playing.
    Tall, thin models dance before me, their designer dresses riding up their skinny, tanned thighs. Long, silky hair sways down their backs as they dance to the music, their arms graceful, their eyes partially closed and cloudy from alcohol. Or other substances. Tall, dark, and handsomes touch the girls’ hips invitingly and pull them closer as the music beats on. It’s like a scene from a movie, one where everyone is ridiculously gorgeous, stupidly tanned, and perfectly thin.
    I scan the club, noting that the VIP booths and table service areas that are roped off with, wait for it, another velvet rope, are a platform higher than the dance floor. Guys pop champagne bottles and girls squeal delightfully as champagne showers erupt, small droplets glistening in their hair. And then, I stop short, my gaze halting and my heart simultaneously galloping and freezing in my chest.
    Lorenzo.
    Leaning over the railing of a private area, a Negroni casually resting between his fingers. He’s wearing a white dress shirt, rolled up on his forearms. His hair curls up around his collar, and he brushes a stray piece back from his forehead. He’s standing comfortably, his posture relaxed. Tapping a navy blue leather loafer in beat with the music, he smiles adoringly at the beautiful redhead standing beside him. His left dimple flashes as he leans in closer to the woman. Her green eyes shine