He turns toward me. “At least you have your suitcase. Icame with nothing.” He collects the damp umbrella that’s by the door. “I’m going to head out to pick up some supplies. Do you need anything?”
I place my hand on my case. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”
He pulls his cap down over his head and shoots me an easy smile
“I wouldn’t bother with the disguise. Everyone knows who you are.”
“It’s raining. I can’t afford for my hair to get wet.”
I snort out a laugh. “Really?”
“No.” He throws me a wink before he pulls the door open, calls for Toffee, and the two of them go, leaving nothing but his scent and the memory of his smile in the room, silent but for the pitter patter of rain against the windows.
I push out a breath, chewing on my lip. I can do this.
I mean, really, it’s all in a day’s work as a journalist. And besides, I’m sure I’ve been in trickier situations. Like the time I spent a full ten minutes interviewing who I thought was a visiting European prince, only to realize he was in fact an actor hired for a charity event. Or the time a palace staff member told me that the then twenty-three-year-old Princess Amelia had announced she was breeding rats to help their dwindling numbers, and believing it, I made a TikTok about it. I later learned that rat numbers are far from dwindling. Quite the opposite, in fact.
But neither of those situations involved sharing a bed with a man who completely scrambles my head. A man I’m meant to have an entirely platonic and professional relationship with. A man who causes a serious butterfly situation in my belly each time he so much as smiles at me. Seriously, it’s like they’ve all drunk too much caffeine and have decided to do the sambaen masse.
And all this with just a smile.
A smile!
Imagine if I’d gone through with the kiss. Who knows where I’d be now.
We’ll need some ground rules. A strictly impenetrable wall of pillows is a start.
Plus, when we do go to bed, we must both be fully clothed. And he can’t wear his aftershave, because that would mess with my hormones, lying here in the dark with him next to me.
Yup, definitely no aftershave.
I’m busy hanging up the wet clothes I was wearing earlier today when Max and Toffee return with a rain-splattered paper bag, his cap soaked through. I help him towel off Toffee, who then promptly rolls around on the rug as though she’s on a mission to get dirty again.
“I got a toothbrush, some food for Toffee, a change of clothes, and even a pair of PJs.” He holds up a box with a picture of a man's torso wearing a white T-shirt. “I can be fresh for our journey tomorrow.”
“If we get to leave tomorrow.”
“I spoke with the police officer again. Terry. He said they are working hard on clearing the trees, and if the rain eases, they expect to have the road cleared by lunchtime tomorrow.”
“That's to the north though, right? What about the flooding to the south?”
“It’s still raining hard, so no progress.”
“My grandmother may only have a sprained ankle, but I still want to see her. Maybe I could catch a bus or something when the flooding subsides.”
“I'm not going to abandon you to some bus, Fabiana. I said I'll take you to Villadorata,and I will take you to Villadorata. I know it's important to you to see your grandmother,” he says softly.
See? He issonot playing fair.
He pulls the T-shirt from its package and for a heart-stopping minute, I think he's going to pull off his damp polo to try it on. But instead, he holds it up against his chest. “What do you think? Does it bring out the color of my eyes?”
“It's white, Max. Unless you’re a zombie and your eyes are white, too, then no, it doesn't.”
He eases himself down onto the bed. “Do zombies have white eyes?”
“Some do. Kind of cloudy. Are you telling me you don’t watch zombie movies?”
“Nope. You do?”
