“That’s the thing…I know it’s on the Amalfi Coast, but I just don’t know where.” I slide the photograph out of my pocket and hand it to him. He drops his hand from my hip and turns to snatch his glasses from the desk, sliding them on so he can study the picture.
“The Cathedral of St. Andrew,” he says, finally.
“You know it?”
“Yeah, it’s famous.” His gaze flicks up to mine and then back down to the photograph. “You’re not going alone, are you?”
“That was the plan,” I say with a shrug.
“Uh, no.” He gives me a disapproving look. It’s the same one he gave me when he realized I hadn’t included breakfast on my menu card. “I’ll take you.”
“What? No, no—you can’t just leave, you have a job here, Nolan,” I argue, but he’s already darting around the cramped office, throwing a few things in a small backpack and pulling off his white jacket, replacing it with a black hoodie.
“It’s not just a job, Chloe,” he says, looking at me over the frame of his glasses as he slips his notebook into the bag. “We have each other’s backs. Shayla can keep things moving while I’m gone.”
“Are you sure?” I ask nervously. I don’t want him to do something that will get him in trouble. I can’t deny, though, that the idea of not having to do this alone is comforting. It’s made better by the fact that it’s Nolan with whom I’ll be spending the next twenty-four hours driving across Italy.
“Of course I’m sure.” He swings the backpack over his shoulder. “Let’s go get your gal.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Nolan’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
FOO FIGHTERS — EVERLONG
Things I’ve learnedabout Nolan Braddock in the time that I’ve known him:
Watching him cook is a turn-on.
Catching him as he slips on his slutty little glasses to read is, surprisingly, also a turn-on.
But hearing himspeak Italian? With authority?
Be still, my raging hormones.I have to resist the urge to fan my face with the map of Italy’s southern coast to keep from bursting into flames in the middle of this car rental place.
Okay, so maybe those aren’t things I’ve learned about him, so much as they’re things I’ve learned about myself.
“Alright, some good news and some bad news,” Nolan says, rapping his knuckles abruptly on the counter in front of us as he turns from the front desk clerk, whom he had been negotiating with, to face me. At least, itsoundedlike a negotiation—the fervent cadence of the Italian language seemed to oscillateeffortlessly between friendly and furious. “The good news is that they have a car available.”
“Great!” I say, already feeling better about the odds of finding Molly and bringing her back to the ship.
“The bad news is you need an international driving permit to rent the car, and to drive, which I’m assuming you don’t have?—”
He waits for me to shake my head before continuing.
“In that case,Ihave to be the one to drive.”
I cock my head to the side, perplexed. How is that bad news? Ihatedriving. Having lived in Toronto my entire adult life, I am well acquainted with the transit system. Subways and streetcars have served me very well over the years, thank you very much.
Besides, cars are expensive.
So, yeah—I’ll pass.
“That’s fine—passenger picks the music, anyway, and I just so happen to haveexcellenttaste. You focus on the road, I’ll focus on the jams.”
Oh God. Did I really just use the word “jams”? Ugh.
I try to stop myself from wincing, but my face must be doing something funny because Nolan peers down at me, his gaze scrutinizing, and asks, “You okay?”
