Page 20 of Bad Men's Good Girl

I don't look over. I keep my eyes on the distant flickers of Florence's lights. "Tired of broken scooters? Every day."

"Tired of being the guy who knows where the hidden plazas are, but never stays in them," she clarifies. "You spend your whole life helping people like me find their footing, Amos. But you’re always the one with your bags packed. Don't you ever want to just... stop? To belong somewhere instead of just passing through it?"

The "easy smile" I usually keep chambered like a round of ammunition feels heavy. I pick at a blade of grass. The truth is a dull ache I usually ignore by booking another flight.

"Most nights, the motion is the point," I say. "But yeah. Sometimes I look at a porch light or a set of keys that actually fit a front door I own, and I wonder what it’s like. To not be a guest. To have a place that doesn't feel like a temporary layover."

I look at her then, and the way she’s watching me makes me feel more seen than I have in a decade. It’s terrifying. I’ve built a life out of being the man with all the answers, but under this tree, I’m just a guy who’s lost his way home.

The mechanic arrives two hours later, smelling of tobacco and grappa, but he coaxes the Vespa back to life with a screwdriver and a sharp Italian curse. By the time we crest the final hill overlooking Florence, the sky has morphed into deep magentas and burning embers. The city below is a jewelry box left open, the Duomo’s dome glowing under the orange spotlight of the dying sun.

Baleigh’s head rests lightly against my shoulder blade. Her grip hasn't loosened, but it’s different now—less like a person clinging to a life raft and more like she’s simply anchored to me. Every bump in the road sends a jolt of heat through my chest.

I’ve done this ride a hundred times. I’ve taken dozens of colleagues and students on "authentic" excursions to impress them, to see the look of wonder on their faces. But those trips felt like performances. Today, every wrong turn and stalled engine felt like a gift. The wild boar ragu and the dusty village square weren't highlights because they were picturesque; they were highlights because I got to hear her laugh when the priest tried to teach her a folk dance.

We coast into the cobblestone courtyard of the residence hall as the street lamps flicker to life. The engine cuts out, but the resulting silence isn't hollow.

"We made it," I say, though a part of me wishes the gas tank had actually run dry ten miles back.

Baleigh slides off the bike and stretches, her skirt wrinkled and her hair a magnificent, wind-blown disaster. She really looks at me, and for a second, the playful banter we use as a shield is gone.

"Technically, the 'spontaneous explorer' delivered," she says, voice low and warm. "Best day of the trip, Amos. Maybe the best day in a long time."

"Even with the donkey?"

"Especially with the donkey." She reaches out, squeezing my forearm briefly before she turns toward the heavy wooden doors of the hall. "See you at breakfast, Southerland."

I watch her walk away. I watch the light from the foyer catch those sunny highlights in her hair before the door clicks shut behind her.

I stand there alone in the dark, hands shoved deep into my pockets. For years, I’ve prided myself on being the guy whocan handle any complication, any disaster, any sudden change in plans. But I’m looking at a problem I can’t troubleshoot. Friendship was the safe route, the easy itinerary. Now, the thought of just being her coordinator—just the guy who shows her the sights—feels like a cramped, windowless room. The professional lines are blurring, and I don't want to fix them. I want more. And in this job, wanting more is the most dangerous move I can make.

13

BALEIGH

Sunlight drapes over the Tuscan hills like golden silk, turning the rows of Sangiovese grapes into a sea of shimmering emerald. The air in Chianti tastes of crushed thyme and woodsmoke, vibrating with the frantic, joyful energy of the vendemmia. Strings of twinkling bulbs crisscross the courtyard of the villa, waiting for dusk, while an accordion player somewhere near the stone cellar squeezes out a melody that makes my chest tighten.

It’s too much. The scent of roasting porchetta, the laughter echoing off ancient limestone, the sheer, unapologetic romance of it all. I adjust the strap of my dress, feeling the heat sink into my shoulders. Everywhere I turn, one of them is there. Amos is near the tasting barrels, throwing his head back as he laughs with a local farmer. Atticus is perched on a low stone wall, his camera lens tracking the movement of the crowd, though I’ve caught him pointing it my way more than once.

Then there’s Max.

He’s walking beside me as we navigate the path toward the estate’s historic cellars, away from the roar of the main festival.The shade of the cypress trees offers a reprieve, but his presence creates a different kind of heat.

"You've been quiet since we hopped off the bus," Max says. He doesn't look at me, keeping his gaze on the horizon, but his stride slows to match mine perfectly. "Usually, I can't keep you from narrated excitement."

"Just taking it in," I say, smoothing a hand over the rough bark of a trellis. "It’s hard to believe this is real. Back home, my biggest weekend highlight is the new shipment at the hardware store."

Max stops. He turns toward me, his brow furrowed behind his glasses. The leather of his watch strap creaks as he thrusts his hands into his pockets. "And when the six weeks end? Does the hardware store satisfy the person who just spent a month navigating the streets of Florence?"

I look away, focusing on a stray vine. "My family is expecting me. My job is there. It’s the sure thing, Max."

"Safe is just another word for stagnant, Baleigh." He steps into my line of sight, forcing me to meet those dark, discerning eyes. "Stop telling me what’s expected. Tell me what you see when you close your eyes and imagine a life you don't need a vacation from."

My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. He isn't asking about my career; he’s stripping away the layers I’ve spent years thickening. Under his steady, unrelenting gaze, the excuses I’ve rehearsed feel flimsy and hollow.

"I don't know if I'm allowed to want that," I whisper.

"The only person holding the permission slip is you." Max moves a step closer, the scent of cedar and expensive espresso enveloping me. "And I think you’re terrified that if you start wanting, you won't be able to stop."