“It was not alove letter.”
“Yeah, and I’m not amelon murderer,” I retort.
“Alright, fine. I’ll admit that I tend to come on strong when I’m attracted to someone. But the fact that you recognized a lyric from some dumb ’90s one-hit-wonder?”
I gasp in mock indignation. “‘Steal My Sunshine’ isnotjust some dumb song.”
He laughs. “No, you’re right. It was the song I listened to every day when I sat in that café doing my homework. I mean…come on. I can’t ignore fate when it says, ‘Hey, Nolan, don’t let this woman get away. She’s something special.’”
“You listened to ‘Steal My Sunshine’ everyday?”
“For a year. Maybe more, actually. The owner of the bakery only had one CD she would play, some mixtape with a bunch of hits, and ‘Steal My Sunshine’ was on it. Twice.”
“That’s dedication,” I say with a smirk.
“So, yeah—I guess it really was kind of a love letter. Or an “I’m really into you” letter. Because I am—really into you, that is.”
“Yeah? Must be my wit and charm,” I offer sarcastically.
“It is,” he replies quickly, the sincerity in his voice humbling.
Nolan’s gaze locks on mine for a second, and I lift my hand to the back of his head, threading my fingers through his hair. He leans back into my grip, angling his head forward slightly so I can scratch at the base of his neck.
Nolan closes his eyes momentarily as a low groan escapes his mouth. As they drift open again, his expression is a bit dazed.
“Chloe, I think you’re going to have to stop that. We have a few more hours where I need to be focused on the road, and this…isn’t helping me stay focused.”
I smirk.
“Oh, no?”
I tunnel my hands through his hair harder, pushing my fingertips into his skin to massage his scalp. His eyes flutter closed again, and before he can say anything else—or groan, because honestly, I would pay good money to hearthatsound again—I pull my hand away and return it to my lap.
“Shit,” he says, his eyes snapping open. I steal a glance at him as he adjusts his position in the seat, and stare smugly out the window, knowing that I’ve probably made the next few minutes or so very uncomfortable for him.
TWENTY-FIVE
Nolan’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
SIXPENCE NONE THE RICHER — KISS ME
We arrivedin Amalfi in the early hours of the morning. Nolan tried to play it off, but I could tell he was exhausted by the yawns that were beginning to punctuate his sentences. The last time I’d checked my tracking app, Molly was stationed at a hotel near the Cathedral of St. Andrew, so I suggested we get a room there, too, and try to track her down first thing in the morning.
“We can’t go banging on every door to find her, and I doubt reception will justtellus which room she’s in,” I’d pointed out, and he agreed. “Besides, we should rest.”
So, I booked a room online—well, one room for each of us; I didn’t want to be presumptuous. Except when we reach the reception desk, the concierge looks concerned as he pulls up our reservation.
“You said you bookedtworooms?” he asks, frowning.
“Um…yes?” I pull out my phone to show him the confirmation email, but I notice a new notification from the booking site. “Oh…I just got an email that one of the rooms was canceled. Is that right?” Relief washes over the man’s face.
“Ah, that’s why I’m only seeing one. We’ve had an issue with our system recently, I apologize. We can give you one room, but unfortunately, it’s the only one available at this time.”
I flick my eyes to Nolan, who shrugs. “I have no problem sharing a room.”
“Alright,” I nod, “we’ll take it.”
“Excellent!” The man swipes a key card and slips it into a little white folio, jotting down the room number on its jacket. “Your room is on the top floor. It’s…cozy, but it has the nicest views.”
