“Only one way to find out.”
Allegra scoffed, Nate’s face flashing behind her eyes again. A pinch of guilt tried to sneak in, but she shoved it away. “Right.‘Hey Nate, got a sec? Just sign this NDA, this vetting form, and this waiver saying you won’t sell my secrets to the highest bidder.’” She shook her head. “Anyway, we’ve organized to meet up again tomorrow.”
“Eeeee,” Clara singsonged, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. “Another date?”
Allegra rolled her eyes, which felt safer than acknowledging the flutter threatening to take over her chest. “It’s not like that. He’s flying back to the States soon anyway. This is just casual. Scenic. Very Swiss and neutral and not at all a big deal.”
“You explaining this to me, or yourself?”
“I am not catching feelings,” Allegra shot back, her knee bouncing. “I’m in Geneva to have fun. That’s it.”
Clara’s smile was serene, deeply unconvinced, and one hundred percent infuriating. “Uh-huh.”
Allegra glared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the End Call button. “Right. I’m going now. Bye, Maus. Please do not pass along my existence to Mom and Dad.”
She hung up and was about to put her phone away when a thought struck. She opened her browser and typed Nate Donovan, the name he’d added to her contacts.
IMDb returned nothing. Huh.
She tried Google. Also nothing. Just a dentist in Ohio, a real estate agent in Sydney, and a guy who’d won a junior sailing regatta in Nova Scotia.
She shrugged, flicking her hair over her shoulder like this mystery was no big deal. Maybe he used a stage name. Plenty of people did. Everyone knew Nicolas Cage wasn’t what his parents had shouted up the stairs at dinnertime.
Which made her pause.
What had his parents called him? Nick? Nathan? Nathaniel the Great?
A buzz cut through her thoughts. Her phone lit up.
Nate:Thanks again for the fondue. I had a really nice time.
Her mouth tilted up.
Allegra:Me too.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Nate:I looked up what we need for tomorrow. Inflatable rings, dry bag, that kind of thing. Don’t suppose you’ve got those tucked into your suitcase?
She snorted, doing a mental inventorying of her bag—her PA’s handiwork for Paris: silk blouses wrapped in tissue, tailored shorts, heels in dust bags. Zero aquatic accessories.
Allegra: As it turns out, no. I foolishly prioritized shoes.
Nate: Tragic. Okay, I’ll go shopping tomorrow morning.
Allegra: You don’t have to.
Nate: I want to. Besides, I’m now fully invested in this plan.
Her insides did that annoying little swoop again, like it was trying to remind her that fun was allowed.
Allegra: Fine. But I’ll organize my own bikini, thank you. And if you come back with flamingo-shaped rings, I’m disowning you.
Nate: No promises.
She laughed, locked her phone, and tapped it against her forehead.
Tomorrow. Sun. A river. Floating in circles with a man who, according to the internet, was aggressively unremarkable—and yet somehow the most interesting person she’d met in years.
