He waved her off. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. Consider it an apology.”
She tilted her head to the side.
“For the bathroom earlier,” he clarified, and her terrified look of mortification flashed through his mind. “Don’t worry. I didn’t see anything.”
Her cheeks flushed. “You promise?”
“Promise. You’ve got lightning-fast reflexes.”
“You didn’t see me trying to run down the bus that we both missed,” she said, half chuckling, half wincing.
“Was it smooth?”
“Oh, the smoothest.” She smiled and ducked her head, pushing a loose strand of her light brown locks behind her ear. “Thank you, by the way. I’m Miriam, or you can call me Miri,” she said, extending her hand.
“Rafael. Or you can call me Rafa.” His hand enveloped hers and he fought the urge to stare. “American?”
“Is it that obvious?” Her face twisted, and he snickered.
“I can say no if you’d like.”
She let out a breath, blowing her bangs up. “What gave it away? Super posh accent? Stylish clothes? General lack of awareness when changing in a public bathroom?”
“Fanny pack.” He tried to keep a straight face when he said it, but he couldn’t help his lips quirking.
“Hey, this is a money belt, thank you very much,” she said as she puffed up her chest and smiled.
“Exactly.” That smile was something. The woman was wearing a fanny pack, yet he found her utterly adorable.
“I take ityouaren’t American?”
He shook his head. “Canadian.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Canadian, aye?” It came out more like a pirate than a Canadian.
“Quebecois,” he responded, his gaze homing in on her. “Grew up in Montreal, though I live in Washington, DC, now. Avez-vous déjà été?”
“Oh.” She clearly had no idea that he’d asked if she’d ever been there, but her hungry eyes shot to his lips, as was customary—and as he intended—whenever he opened his mouth and released his French-Canadian je ne sais quoi. Every. Time. One didn’t look and sound like Rafa and not know how it affected women.
Or use it to their advantage from time to time.
“I thought you may have been a local when I first saw you at the airport,” she continued.
“First time here. Though my mother was Brazilian.”
“Are you here to visit family?”
He paused for a moment, debating how to respond. Stranger or not, no one was supposed to know he was in Brazil, andespeciallynot what he was doing there.
The reasons for his travels were to be kept top secret: document a private archaeological expedition in the Amazon to find the lost Cidade da Lua. His employer—top world culture,travel, and exploration magazineGlobal Geography—had learned of the excursion from the team financier, some wealthy businessman named Eugene Larity, who wanted to chronicle this momentous occasion. Or, at least,potentiallymomentous, seeing as dozens of explorers had undertaken this very same quest to no avail. ButGloGeohad been involved in many great discoveries, and somehow Mr. Larity was familiar with Rafa’s work as both a prize-winning journalist and an accomplished photographer.
Too bad he wasn’t familiar with the fact that Rafa had recently tried quitting his job.
But this was it. One last mission and then he was done. Or he would be, once he could convince his dad that leavingGloGeoto pursue writing novelswasn’tthe career suicide his father made it out to be.
So, fresh off his prior assignment and with less than a week’s notice, Rafa had packed his bags, done some rudimentary research on the Moon City, and set off for his next—and hopefully, final—adventure.
Tchau, DC, olá, Brazil.
