She army-crawled across the floor, lifting a damp towel. Nothing. Under the bed. Nothing. Under the sheet. Oh God, please don’t wake up. Also, nothing.
Brrrzzzzzt!
Her purse rattled. “Crap!” Allegra lunged for it and yanked open the zipper. She fished out her iPhone. Except, since when did she have a background of a dog wearing sunglasses? And why were there seven missed calls? She squinted at it, her brain slogging through molasses. The phone buzzed again. She swiped to answer. “Hello?”
A cautious male voice replied, “Hi. Who’s this?”
“Uh, who’s this?” she echoed.
“Um, Nate. Whoever you are, you have my phone.”
“Shit! Sorry—sorry,” Allegra rubbed an eyebrow, coaxing the memory out of the haze. Yes, Nate. The broad-shouldered hottieshe’d flirted with. “I ran into you last night. Literally. I picked it up thinking you’d come back for it.”
“Yeah. I didn’t notice it was gone until this morning.”
“Oh. Oh no. Was that inconvenient?”
There was a beat. “I mean. I did miss my flight.”
Her stomach dropped. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey, no. That one’s on me,” he said quickly. “I fell asleep and forgot to set an alarm. Like an idiot.”
Okay. So not entirely her fault. Maybe seventy percent. Sixty.
“Well,” she said, pinning the phone between her shoulder and ear as she continued her search for the missing top, “since you’re not currently airborne, maybe we could meet up? So I can give this back?”
“Sure.”
“And maybe,” she added, chewing her lip as the idea took shape, “I could buy you lunch? As a peace offering. For this. And the whole wine-on-your-shirt situation?”
A brief silence followed, just long enough to make her wonder if she’d overstepped. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Why not. Got a place in mind?”
Oh God, yes.L’Atelier Robuchon. Duck foie gras terrine, crisp Sauternes, a table with linen napkins—ABORT. Princess in hiding! She gulped. “Uh, your call.”
“There’s this place by the lake I’ve been meaning to try. Think it’s called Bain des Pâquis. I’m probably saying it wrong.”
“Yeah, I know it,” she said. The trust was she’d only ever walked past it, eyeing the picnic tables with the same enthusiasm as a vegan at a steakhouse. It was the antithesis of her foie gras fantasies—cheap, casual, and painfully unpretentious.
“I hear they do amazing fondue,” Nate said.
“Fondue?” She squinted at the blade of sun slicing through the shutters. “In July?”
“So?”
“Only tourists eat fondue in July.”
“Um, American. Socks and sandals. Square head. Ring any bells?”
“Ah,” Allegra snickered, snatching the phone from her ear to check the time—10:45 a.m.Holy hell.“Twelve work?” she said, already calculating how fast she could chug coffee and still look human.
“Perfect.”
She hung up and dove back into her search. A moment later: “Ha!” Sandwiched between two brick-like tomes on Japanese Encephalitis lay her mustard tank top. Miracles, it seemed, did happen.
She pulled it on, grabbed her sneakers and purse, and tiptoed toward the door. Hair sticking out as if she’d been electrocuted, stomach queasy, brain running on half a watt. And yet: a date.
Now all she had to do was keep her lunch down and her lineage to herself.
