Remy vs Rome Read Online Bonnie Callahan

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 109595 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
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In the heart of the Eternal City, ancient secrets aren’t the only thing getting uncovered.

Heartbroken, Remy flies to Rome—the site of her first kiss—to get over her ex and rediscover herself. On her first night in the city, she jumps into her new life by agreeing to a date with a smooth-talking Italian stranger who, as fate would have it, turns out to be a jerk…and a most wanted international criminal to boot.
Implicated in the theft of an ancient amulet, Remy finds herself under house arrest and in the protection of Lorenzo Rossi, the infuriatingly handsome Sicilian detective in charge of the investigation. The case is a make-or-break situation for both of them, and together, they must solve a series of clues to track down the amulet and the bad guys—all while struggling to keep their finger grazes to a minimum and their partnership appropriate.
Their investigation takes them on an intimate, two millennia treasure hunt through Rome, where Remy digs up more than she bargained for.

FULL BOOK START HERE:

Chapter

One

I, Remy Campbell, solemnly swear, I start to type. The blinking cursor taunts me from the laptop screen, and I stretch my neck, sore from being stooped below the top bunk. Across the room, a unicorn-shaped clock emits a series of whinnies, rubbing in the fact that I woke up in my niece’s bedroom on New Year’s Day, alone and no longer engaged.

I promised myself I would write my resolutions before falling asleep—new rules for a new Remy, a fresh start, less crying in the tub—but all it took was a couple of glasses of prosecco and an after-dinner bath to make me a liar. Now, my head is a disaster (my sister’s three screaming kids don’t help), and I’m in no condition to draft any sort of document that’s meant to dictate the renaissance of my dating life.

I reach for my phone, digging through the pile of stuffed animals that seven-year-old Camila forces me to sleep with and lift it by the corner like it might bite. The illustrated orange blossoms on the case are not enough to fool me into trusting that whatever I see on the screen will be equally sweet. I’m already cringing when I tap to pull up my notifications and discover multiple missed calls from Cassie, along with an assortment of vividly worded texts from her and a few of our other friends. Last night they went out for a multicourse dinner in Scottsdale and then downtown for the countdown. I’d said I’d go, but a party was not worth the risk of seeing Eric.

That traitorous bastard.

Taking a deep breath, I put the phone down and hit the backspace key on my laptop. I am a twenty-year-old woman, and I shouldn’t start my resolutions like some third year at Hogwarts.

Fine, I am a twenty-five-year-old woman—almost twenty-six.

A whimper lodges in my throat. I am an almost-twenty-six-year-old woman whose fiancé left her just before the holidays and who’s been forced to move in with her sister and brother-in-law and their brood of wildlings.

I’d venture that the new year could only be an improvement, but I don’t want to tempt the universe into proving me wrong.

There’s a thump against the bedroom door, followed by two more and the sound of hysterical giggles. I close my laptop, slamming my head into the top bunk as I sit up to slide the computer under the bed. A very unsexy moan escapes my mouth as I massage the permanent bruise on my forehead.

The door flies open, and the kids tumble into the room. They all have their dad’s black hair, dark eyes, and tan, olive skin, like The Village of the Damned in negative—way cuter, but not necessarily less scary.

“Mom wants to know if you’d like pancakes,” Cristian, the serious second-born, says. The baby, Carlito, tackles me. I smoosh my face into his hair as his grimy little hands press into the sides of my cheeks. Perhaps this has something to do with my recent bout of adult acne.

Camila strolls to the bed and sits down. “Are you sick?” she asks, cocking her head as she eyes me.

“Why do you ask?” I pry Carlito off my neck and set him down on my lap.

“This,” she responds, gesturing toward everything from my neck up, “looks…bad.”

Cristian nods in agreement, lips pursed in concern.

I sigh. If Camila thinks I look like crap, I’m sure I do. My highlights, which were due for a refresh at the beginning of December, have crossed the line from ombre to embarrassing. The lack of regular washing doesn’t help. My face hasn’t gotten any love beyond the occasional coat of tinted sunscreen, which my beauty brand boss and my pores are not pleased about.

On a positive note, all the crying has really made the green in my hazel eyes pop.

“Tell your mom I want all the fu…I want all the flipping pancakes.”


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