But that wasn’t what she wanted. Felicity’s intention was for Annie to live life on her own terms, not be dependent on some guy to decide her future.

And she was going to do just that. She already had a rough plan of how she would go about setting up her own place. First up, she would do a refresher styling course; years of catering to middle-aged women and the blue rinse brigade’s washes and sets had put her out of the game trend-wise, and she needed to improve her offering.

Then she would get some work experience at one of the chain salons, well and truly learning the ropes within a busy popular operation, before taking the plunge and opening her own place.

Taking Kim’s advice, she’d also look into doing an additional course in how to set up a small business, getting all the official stuff right from the start and maybe even apply to the Irish Enterprise Board for a grant.

In any case, Annie was determined to do this and do it properly from the start if she truly wanted to make a go of it.

This Italian trip had been a brilliant excuse to let loose and have fun, a fantastic diversion from the humdrum, and she’d even managed to make some good friends on the way, ones who weren’t just about partying and getting trashed.

She smiled. After her stinking hangover that first day, Kim had pretty much given up on wild nights out, and whatever mindfulness stuff she’d got going on since really suited her.

She was so calm and always full of good advice—for Colette especially. Annie had got the sense right from the get-go that Kim was running from something other than just boredom, and she figured that whatever it might be, this trip had helped her, too.

The three of them were runaways, really—and as Kim pointed out, it was fate that had led them to Villa Dolce Vita as their means of escape.

Now, Annie looked at her reflection in the mirror with some satisfaction. There was no denying it, she looked hot.

Her skin was now deeply tanned from so much time in the sun, and she’d lost pretty much all of her burgeoning spare tire (either from walking up and down those bloody hills, or the lighter Mediterranean diet).

She wore her hair loose, her natural dark curls tumbling sexily around her face. She’d stopped straightening it these days just to give it a break, though she did go heavy on the makeup tonight—full-on glam—and was wearing her best dancing dress. The same figure-hugging number she’d worn the very first night here—one that made the absolute most of her curves and gave her oodles of sensuality.