“What? No.” He paused, eyes narrowing—not on her hand, but her face. “It’s just… something’s off. And I think I finally clocked it.”
Her spine went rigid. “Clocked what?”
“Last night, you were wearing these giant glasses.”
Allegra shoved gelato into her mouth. “Owwh?” she mumbled, swallowing too fast and immediately regretting it as brain freeze stabbed her forehead. “Prescription sunglasses. And, uh, contacts. For—”think, Allegra, think—“vision stability.”Vision stability? Who even says that?
Nate lifted a palm, his expression sincere. “Not a dig. The glasses really suited you.” He said it like it was a fact, not flattery. “See? That’s how normal people give compliments.”
Her face warmed, and she bit her lip. “Oh. Right. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, bumping her shoulder. Then, after a beat, “So, you always play tour guide for strangers?”
She laughed, the tightness in her chest easing. “Only the ones who pay with dessert.”
They wandered along the promenade, kids weaving past on scooters, tourists squinting at maps, couples ambling in that slow, syrupy summer rhythm. As they reached the steps leading down to the beach proper, the noise swelled.
The entire shoreline was a riot of color and chaos: families clustered around portable grills, toddlers shrieking in inflatable armbands, bronzed locals sprawled like sun-worshipping lizards. A dozen different boom boxes competed for dominance, creating a soundtrack that was equal parts pop, afrobeats, and whatever someone’s uncle insisted on playing from a tinny speaker.
Allegra pulled the brim of her hat down, suddenly hyperaware of everyone within a ten-foot radius. Nate, meanwhile, beamed like he’d stumbled onto a secret festival. He wove them past sprawled limbs, around a yapping Maltese and a knot of teenagers arguing in rapid-fire French, and finally stopped.
“Found us a spot,” he said, motioning toward a postage-stamp slice of pebbles.
“Luxury,” she deadpanned, letting her purse drop.
And just like that, Nate started stripping. He toed off his sandals, removed his cap, yanked the T-shirt over his head, and slid out of his shorts. Allegra’s stomach pitched. She wasn’t blind. She’d clocked the way his sleeves clung to his biceps, and sure, she’d let her mind wander more than once over lunch. But not even her imagination had prepared her for this.
A chest so broad and smooth it looked carved from marble. Shoulders that announced,I lift things, up and down, every damn morning.His stomach? Not just abs, but a full-on topographic map of muscle, the ridges leading down to the waistband of his boxer briefs like a trail she suddenly, inconveniently, wanted to follow. And the tattoos. God, thetattoos. A compass and script winding down one arm, a storm of blackwork swirling up the other, a phoenix sprawled across his shoulder like it owned the place. Little symbols hidden here and there, stories inked into his skin that her fingers itched to trace.
“You coming?” he asked.
Am I what?Allegra’s brain stuttered. “Just a quick dip,” she said, her voice squeaking as a vein throbbed in her temple. “No sunscreen. Zero melanin. I don’t tan, I crisp.”
She fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, shimmied out of her shorts, and stood there in a gray G-string and a bralette that was technically clothing, but just barely. For one heart-stopping second, time stopped. Nate’s Adam’s apple jerked, his eyes doing theI’m not lookingshuffle—everywhere but her. And his ears? Pink enough to guide ships in a storm.
“Okay, so let’s do this,” she said, forcing breeziness into her voice as she ran past him toward the lake.
Behind her, she heard him huff a disbelieving laugh.
They waded in and swam until they reached the line of buoys, bobbing gently where the swimming zone ended and the open lake began. Allegra hooked an arm over the rope, catching her breath as the water rocked them both. From there, the view stretched wide: white buildings lining the opposite shore like sugar cubes, and to their left, Geneva’s water fountain flinging spray high into the sky.
“Must be wild to actually live here,” Nate said, nodding at a passing yacht. “Wake up to all this. Just have it be normal.”
Allegra wrinkled her nose. “That’s because we don’t live here. Tourists get the postcard. Locals get the ‘don’t flush after ten p.m.’ rule.”
He smiled wistfully. “Yeah. Guess fresh places always look like fresh starts.”
They floated for a beat, shoulders bumping as a ferry’s wake jostled them, a zing shooting down their skin where they met.
“So,” he said, leaning back so his toes poked out of the water, “what do you do when you’re not rescuing Americans’ phones and eating molten cheese?”
“What do I—uh—do?”
“Yeah. Like hobbies. Free time. What’s your thing?”
Her thing. That should’ve been an easy question. Except Allegra’s mind went completely blank. Her free time came in schedule blocks labeled “leisure,” mostly code for obligations in disguise.
“I like, um, reading.” That sounded safe. Everyone liked reading. “And hiking. And, oh! Skiing. And anything outdoorsy.”
