You Had Me at Merlot: Part 2 by Lisa Dickenson Read Free Book Online

crammed together and spilling over the sides, like stubborn old ladies using each other’s bodies to stop
     themselves falling down.
    We strolled down the centre peering into the jewellery stores, over the wonky paving slabs of the arched walkway to the middle
     of the bridge where the shops gave way to views out across the river. We stood for a while, tourist-watching.
    ‘Is that Laurie?’
    Jamie shaded his eyes from the sun and looked in the direction I was pointing, where a woman was loosely draping herself over
     a man in an embrace that rivalled any Jack Vettriano painting. They were kissing, tenderly, and when they broke for air she
     rested her head on his chest and looked out over the river.
    ‘And Jon! Lucky man. I thought he was going to be ousted by Marco for sure,’ said Jamie.
    ‘Me too, but see how content she looks. I don’t mean this to sound like my friend’s a man-eater, but usually when she kisses
     she’s all hair-pulling, legs wrapped around, sucking the life out of them like she was the last vampiress on Earth.’
    ‘
You Had Me at Merlot
: one, us cynics: nil.’
    ‘I’m beginning to feel a little less cynical, to be honest.’ I wondered if he knew that was my embarrassingly lame attempt
     to tell him I desperately wanted him to kiss the hell out of me on this bridge.
    ‘Me too. They seem to be having a nice time.’
    ‘Happy.’
    ‘Happy,’ he agreed.
    ‘There must be something about this bridge – look at all these couples,’ God, I was disgusting, practically begging for a
     snog.
    ‘Hard to think about anything other than love.’
    ‘And kissing.’ URGH, where was my filter? I had to remember to punch myself in the face when I got back.
    Jamie turned to face me straight on; I mirrored him. His eyes searched mine and he raised his eyebrows playfully. I mirrored
     him again, because apparently I’d forgotten how to speak English now. He stepped closer, inviting me to do the same, until
     we were inches apart, and there was no question that this was going to happen. Our heads drew closer.
    ‘
Jamiiiieeee
,’ shrilled a high-pitched West Country accent. We pulled apart just as Vicky and Jane screeched to halt by our sides and
     grabbed Jamie’s arms, swinging him around.
    ‘Jamie, we need you to translate for us,’ giggled Jane, pointing out two pumped-up Italian men with slicked hair who can’t
     have been older that eighteen.
    I wanted to throw every one of them off the bridge.
    ‘So this is, um, Franco or something, and I need you to tell him I’m just here for the day but I totally want to go drinking
     with him.’
    ‘And this is my one,’ said Vicky, pulling forward her nameless teenager. ‘And I need you to tell him I’m a model back in England.’
    ‘And tell mine that I’m a model too.’
    ‘And tell mine that English girls are the best kissers.’
    ‘That is true,’ I said through gritted teeth, catching Jamie’s amused eye.
    Jamie, ever the gracious host, dutifully translated a stream of embellishments about the girls for the poor boys, and by the
     time they left there was much hand-holding, neck-kissing and bottom-slapping.
    I was hoping we could start again right where we’d left off, but as the mood had been ruined somewhat Jamie took my hand in
     his big, rough one and announced that we were off to look at another man’s penis.
    Jamie must have some kind of tour-group deal with the Galleria dell’Accademia, because we managed to skirt the long queue
     and head straight inside.
    ‘We only have one day in Florence, so I’m just going to show you the must-see.’
    We wove through halls and galleries festooned with Renaissance artwork until, standing seventeen feet high, was Michelangelo’s
     David.
    ‘He’s ginormous!’ I cried, not especially talking about his not-so-private parts that were dangling about for all of Italy
     to see. The sculpture was perfectly carved, from his lifelike toes to his straight Roman nose. There was something