His eyes were like deep pools that she wanted to dive right into. He didn’t look Italian and seemed to be with a large group of lads, so she wondered if he was a tourist, too.

“Nope,” she scolded herself, turning away with a bottle of water for the dance floor. “Not going there.”

She’d decided not to drink tonight; not to drink too much while here at all, really. She didn’t want to end up doing the same in Italy as she’d been doing back home, getting trashed and ending up with strangers.

She was on her own in an unfamiliar country after all, so she needed to keep her wits about her.

Annie loved to dance. It was an urge that started at her hips and took over her entire body. She couldn’t help it. It was the most liberating thing you could do, at least in her mind, and it was something she indulged in whenever she could.

One moment she was on her own, giving it socks on the dance floor, and the next she could feel a presence behind her. Annie turned to find the guy from the bar, his body dangerously close to her own.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked in perfect English.

She turned to him with a grin. “Ah, you are a tourist.”

“I wasn’t sure if you were,” he admitted with a small chuckle. “I’m glad because I’m absolute crap at Italian. I was just taking a chance.”

He was verrrry cute.

“Glad you did,” Annie replied flirtatiously as she turned her back to him and continued to dance. His hands reached her hips then as he joined in and Annie found herself having to repress the urge to lean into him.

Take your time, girl. Take your time.

The music played on and they continued to dance, chatting intermittently as they did. He was a Brit and he and his mates had just arrived the day before. This was also his first night out on the town.

Annie felt a slight thrill when she told him she was traveling alone and not on some girlie holiday; it made her feel sophisticated and mysterious—someone who did her own thing and controlled her own destiny.

Which of course she was now, thanks to Felicity Finch.

She wasn’t particularly interested in pointless chitchat, though, not when there was dancing to be had instead.

A song she really loved came on, and she twirled in his arms, losing herself in the thrill and romance of the electrifying music and being in a foreign country, dancing with a handsome stranger.

“What’s your name?” he asked eventually.

“Annie,” she shouted above the music, as one of his friends appeared alongside him.

“Harry, we’re moving on, mate. You coming?”

She smiled. Harry suited him. And now that she thought of it, he even looked a little bit like his princely namesake in England.