Surrounded by all those priceless works of art, it was easy to forget my troubles, easy to let myself fall into the moment. Especially with Liam's warm hand pressed against mine.

"Come on, I think the stairs up are over this way," I said, tugging him along like I was an impatient kid wanting to find the best aisle at Toys R Us.

"There," Liam said, pointing at the square sign poking off the wall with the picture of a stickman mounting stairs.

We pushed through the doors and I started up, our footsteps echoing up and down so that it sounded like dozens of people took the trip with us.

We were alone, though. A fact that Liam didn't forget. We reached a landing. I wanted to use my momentum to swing me around to the next flight, but Liam held me firm.

"What...?" I started.

He pulled me to him, pinning me against him with those strong arms of his. "You're so beautiful. Especially when you're happy." He kissed me, his mouth eager and hot on mine.

It was nice, but I felt so self conscious. "What if the guard comes? Or other visitors?" I hissed at him.

"Let them," he replied. He started kissing me again, the warmth of his body pressing against mine intoxicating. I wanted to get drunk on him. But then I saw the camera.

"What if someone's watching?" I said, nodding at the camera up in the corner, the little red light below the lens glaring at us like an evil eye. He looked back over his shoulder at it.

"I don't have anything to hide. I don't think you do, either. Let them see us."

"You exhibitionist," I said. Not that there was a single part of him he'd need to be embarrassed about anyone seeing.

"I can't help it. You're just irresistible. The way you move, the way you smile." Apparently even mentioning it got him going, because desire flared in his eyes again and he pulled me into another kiss.

We carried on until the hollow boom of the first floor door opening washed over us. Adrenaline burned through me at the thought of being caught. We both laughed, rushing up the final flight of stairs before we could be discovered.

"Oh," I said when we pushed through that second door.

The second floor used to be the Conservator's Apartments. It was definitely a job I would have worked for free if I'd been able to live in those halls and rooms.

It was even more opulent than the first floor. Frescoes and tapestries decorated what seemed to be every flat surface.

Statues and busts filled every sconce and archway. Even the architecture of the rooms themselves was a work of art.

"What is that?" Liam said when we reached a window that looked down into the inner courtyard. Fragments of a massive statue stood on various plinths on the stone floor.

"It's a colossus. Oceanus, I think," I said, staring at a massive foot broken off at the ankle that looked about as long as I was tall. It was hard to grasp the full magnitude of what the statue would have looked like, fully assembled. Though I remembered seeing drawings in some textbook or other.

"Must be a pain to shop for shoes," Liam said.

"Ha-ha. Funny."

"Who said it was a joke?" he replied, nudging me.

Still hand-in-hand, we reached the exhibit that was one of the centerpieces of the museum. It was a bronze statue of a wolf, two small boys suckling at it from beneath.

"Romulus and Remus," Liam said, naming the two mythical founders of Rome.

Again I was impressed. It kept slipping my mind that Liam knew his stuff when it came to this city.

"I think I'd like to be the curator of a museum," I said, examining the burnished head of the she-wolf, seeing the ferocious and protective look in her eyes.

"Whatever happened to the Roamin' Roman cafe?" Liam said.

That brought the heat to my cheeks. "I can't believe I told you that. I also can't believe you remember!"

"It was important to you. I knew how much that memory of your father meant to you. So it's important to me, too."

I wrapped my arm around his waist and pulled him close. I could feel the firmness of his abs through the thin material of the polo shirt.

It's okay to ask for help, Isabella said. I knew right away why I'd chosen to remember that at that moment. I knew that Liam wasn't going to look down on me for asking for help.

I took a deep breath, getting myself ready. Here goes.

"Liam, I wanted to ask you something..."

"I think we've seen just about everything," he broke in, "Unless there's something else you can think of?"

"No, I don't think so. Like I was trying to say, there's something..."

"Great! We can get to part two of the date now."

What is he playing at? "That's nice, but this is hard for me. Just let me get it out. So..."

His arm, already across my shoulders, squeezed me closer so that the fresh scent of his aftershave tickled at my nose. "I think I have some idea of what you're getting at. If it is what I think it is, then we should probably talk about it over supper."

"Supper?" I said.

"Yes. That meal that comes after lunch. Usually between five and seven in the evening."

I hit him in the ribs with my elbow. "I know what it is."

"Good. Then you should join me for some."

I started to object, but then my stomach made its presence known with a growl that Liam pretended to ignore. I'd been so caught up with the museum, and with everything happening at school, that I'd forgotten about food.

But now that I had remembered, my appetite returned with a vengeance. That cinnamon cookie at lunch had been my last bit of solid food for the day. Far too little, as made abundantly clear by the gurgles that I thought for certain echoed throughout the whole floor.

And of course Liam had known. That man was magic, or psychic. Something, anyway.

"Okay, but after we eat there won't be any more..."

"Interruptions? No," he grinned at me. "Don't worry, the place is pretty close by."

***

There was a small corner restaurant just at the bottom of the hill that he took me to. As soon as he opened the door the smell wafting me out had the saliva squirting into my mouth.

"Pizza," Liam said, "Italian pizza. The real deal. I'm going to assume that you haven't actually had any since coming here. Which is, in my book at least, a sin."

As with so many of the little restaurants and cafes throughout the city, this place preferred those round little bistro tables suitable for no more than two. Unlike many of the other places, the tables in this place had white tablecloths draped over them, their skirts inches from the floor.

Liam and I took our seats at one near the window, which looked back up the hill towards the museums that now seemed to glow with the last rays of evening light washing over them.

It was a dark place, but in a warm and comfortable way. That warmth and comfort emanated chiefly from the old-style wood-burning oven in the back. I could smell melted cheese, fresh basil. The richness of homemade tomato sauce.

The man who came out to take our order wore an enormous black mustache below his nose and one of those floppy white chef's hats on his head. Flour patterned his apron and made me think of Mrs. Rosselini.

"Pizza Margherita," Liam said, holding up two fingers, "Due."

The man nodded and then went back to his prep table, which was visible to us. Making pizza in Italy was an art unto itself, it seemed. He rolled and kneaded the dough balls into relatively flat sheets.