“Is that so?” She’s amused. And she’s interested. She almost purrs.
I meantto feed, but that works too. If I was selling sex, I reckon I’d get paid pretty well. I’ve never had any complaints. Plenty of compliments. A few stunned looks. And severalYou’re the best I’ve ever hads. I think that old adageThe quiet ones are always the worsthas a ring of truth to it.
What the hell am I thinking? This whole thing is like something out of one of my sister’s romance books. The ones she keeps leaving like heavy hints around my house.The ones I’ve read that have provided very little help.
“Late works,” Ryan announces suddenly, pulling me from my musing. “It means less time we need to be there.”
“Right.”
“Also, the band will be playing, so people won’t notice your accent. Hopefully,” she adds with a flicker of consternation.
“I have an accent?”
“Sorry to break it to you.” Shielding her amusement, she glances at the window display of a boutique as we pass. “Maybe you should speak as little as possible, because it’s an accent that doesn’t work for the narrative.”
“And what is that narrative?”
“Well, Nathaniel, Nate, my imaginary boyfriend, is Spanish.”
“Like Carl from the Cuddle Collective.”
“LikeCarlosfrom the Cuddle Collective. Who I’m going to smother with a pillow,” she adds quite happily.
“It’s sounding more and more like you’re the killer here.”
Her brow furrows.
“Nate. It’s not a very Spanish name,” I continue, not sure what’s made her frown.Maybe she’s vegan.
“I know.” Her shoulder lifts and falls carelessly. “The story kind of spun away from itself.”
“Our backstory?”
“We met last summer in Florence.” Her footsteps begin to slow until we’re both stationary and facing each other. “And you’re an artist, hence the sketches.”
“The ones you sent to yourself.”
“It was a good touch, right? Anyway,” she adds when she finds confusion and not agreement on my face. “You were working on the banks of the river.”
This is batshit crazy, right?“A Spanish artist? On the banks of the Arno?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Why not an Italian artist?” Which would make way more sense.
“It just came out that way, okay?”
Touchy. “I can see that. Especially with a name like Nathaniel.” Why not Matías? Or Sebastien or Hugo? On second thought, if she’d used my name or one of my brothers’ names, this would be much weirder. “Was he—I—drawing or painting?”
“What does it matter?”
“I tell you what does matter. He’d fry in summer. Could be worse, I suppose. You could’ve picked the rainy season.”
Her brow furrows again.
“Have you ever been to Florence?” I ask.
“Of course.” Her shrug is pointed and prickly, though her answer is assured.
