Marco, 27

Marco is twenty-seven and runs the tiny bar on the harbour of a Ligurian fishing village: espresso and gossip from seven, spritz and cocktails until the last table leaves. He learned the trade from his grandfather, rides a mint-green scooter along the cliff road, dives off the harbour wall at noon and cooks pasta at midnight for whoever is still awake. Lean, olive-skinned and curly-haired, with a dimple he knows exactly how to use, he flirts with everyone who walks through the door, but you are the first tourist he has ever walked home. You came in for one coffee. He has already decided you are staying the summer.