So far from mine, it might as well be a different planet.
The car is a sleek black Audi, and the driver ushers us into the back seat with practiced efficiency. My luggage looks comically shabby next to Grant's titanium luggage. I slide across thebuttery leather seats, and Grant follows, the door closing behind us with a decisive click.
We're cocooned together in the back seat, Florence spreading out before us through the tinted windows.
"Where is Santa Croce?" the driver asks.
I give him the hostel address, and I don't miss the quick glance he exchanges with Grant in the rearview mirror. Grant's jaw tightens, but he doesn't comment.
The city unfolds around us, all terracotta roofs and narrow streets and impossible beauty. I press my face to the window like a kid, drinking it in. I've been to Europe before—a college semester in Paris—but Florence is different. There's a warmth here, a richness, that feels like coming home to a place I've never been.
He leans close to me, pointing out the window. "See that dome? That's the Duomo. Brunelleschi's masterpiece. We could go up to the top if you want, though I should warn you it's more than four hundred steps."
The casual "we" makes my heart skip. "You don't have to be a tour guide. I’m sure you’re really busy."
"What if I want to?"
I turn from the window to find him watching me with an expression that makes my mouth go dry. We're close again, the car forcing an intimacy that the plane didn't quite manage with the armrests between us. I can see the exact shade of stubble along his jaw and the shadows under his eyes that suggest he didn't sleep as well as I thought.
"Grant," I say, and I don't even know what I'm trying to say. A warning? A question?
"I know," he says quietly. "I know who you are. Who I am. Who your father is." His hand finds mine on the seat between us, his fingers threading through mine with a confidence that stealsmy breath. "But right now, in this car, in this city, we're just Emma and Grant. Can we be that? Just for a little while?"
It's a terrible idea. Reckless and dangerous and absolutely something I should refuse.
"Yes," I whisper.
His thumb traces a circle on the back of my hand, and his touch is electric. We're playing with fire, and we both know it.
The car pulls up in front of my hostel, and reality crashes back in. Grant looks at the building—shabby but respectable, colorful laundry hanging from upper-story windows—and I can see him physically restraining himself from commenting.
"Thank you for the ride," I say, not moving to get out.
"Emma." My name is rough in his mouth. "Are you free tonight?"
I should say no. Should let this end here, chalk up the flight to a weird, charged anomaly and never speak of it again.
"Yes," I hear myself say.
Grant's smile could power the entire city. "I'll text you. Is your number the same?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. I’m trying to recall why he would even have my number but I’m happy he does.
The driver opens my door, and the spell breaks. I grab my bag, stepping out into the bright Florentine morning. Grant follows me out, standing on the cobblestones in his expensive shoes, looking completely out of place and absolutely perfect.
"Hey," he says as I turn to go.
"Yeah?"
He steps closer, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he's going to kiss me. Right here, in broad daylight, consequences be damned.
Instead, he reaches out and gives me a brief hug.
"Be careful," he says softly.
I don't think he's talking about the hostel.
"You too," I whisper.
