“Good night, Red.”
“Mmm, you too,” she mumbles without opening her eyes as I pull the sheets over her body.
I return to my room, cleaning up the mess I made on the wall, and leave the doors between our rooms open because a part of me hopes she’ll come find me in the middle of the night.
TWENTY
ZALEA | FLORENCE
There’ssomething magical about waking at the crack of dawn, birds chirping outside my window, rose-pink light spilling through the curtains, and a delicious ache lingering between my thighs. If last night is anything to go by, Italy has turned Gabriel and me into something dangerously insatiable.
“I’ll never get tired of him,” I mumble into my pillow, smiling to myself.
“I hope you’re talking about me, because being your first thought of the day is flattering.”
Gabriel’s voice drifts from across the room, and I freeze.
Slowly, I lift my head and peer at him through the curtain of my hair. He’s sitting in the lounge chair by the window, already dressed in a crisp white linen shirt, navy chinos, and black leather loafers. He looks entirely too put-together for this hour.
“Is there a reason you’re in my room this early?” I mutter, pushing my hair back. “And dressed like that?”
He shrugs, mouth twitching with amusement. “I missed you,” he says, winking. “And I want to take you out on a date.”
“We were just on a date yesterday.”
“This will be a better date,” he replies confidently.
I sit up, dragging the sheets with me. “How so?”
“I want to take you to the Amalfi Coast,” he says. “Let you do some damage to my card in Positano. Buy yourself a new wardrobe now that you’ll have a closet to fill.”
I narrow my eyes. “We could do damage to your card here in Florence. Why Amalfi?”
He glances at his phone, casual as ever. “Why not go on a spontaneous adventure? Just us?”
A weekend getaway in Positano with Gabriel does sound tempting. Crystal water, sunlit cliffs, shops filled with beautiful clothes and accessories. It’s the kind of indulgence fantasy-Zalea would say yes to without hesitation.
But I can’t go.
“I’m supposed to meet with Giovanna and the rest of the students today,” I remind him. “We’re discussing the assignment she gave us.”
“Don’t worry about Giovanna,” he says, standing. “I cleared it with her last night.”
I blink. “Why are you talking to my professor behind my back?”
“Technically,” he counters, tossing his phone lightly into the air and catching it again, “she spoke to me first, in Rome.” He unlocks his phone and reads from the screen. “She told me to tell you—Il mondo è il tuo miglior insegnante.”
I laugh, his horrible pronunciation is almost cute. “What the hell does that mean?”
“According to Google Translate,” he continues. “She’s saying the world is your best teacher.” He lifts a brow. “So what do you say?”
I roll my eyes and toss a pillow at his head but he catches it easily. “Fine,” I sigh. “Can you grab us breakfast while I get ready?”
“So demanding,” he murmurs, tossing the pillow onto the foot of my bed. “I’ll be back with food in thirty minutes. Get ready.”
An hour later,we’re in Gabriel's convertible with the top down, wind whipping through my hair as we wind along the scenic roads toward the Amalfi Coast. It’s a six hour drive, but leaving as early as we did means we should arrive by early afternoon.
Comfortable silence settles between us until Gabriel’s phone rings through the car speakers. He taps a button on the dash.
