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I type Nora Rahal into the search bar, and a few pages pop up, none of them her.
“Landon?”
“Umm, yeah. Sure. Thanks, Mom, love you guys.” I hang up and toss the phone onto the couch next to me.
I type Nora’s sister’s name, and hope I can spell it correctly. Stausey Rahal doesn’t appear, but a profile under the name Stausey Tahan does. When I click on the profile, Stausey’s face appears. I know instantly that it’s her; I can tell by her features. Dark green-brown eyes and high cheekbones. She’s slightly thinner than Nora; her face is more narrow, and her lips aren’t as full. I scroll through her profile and quickly discover from the photos and comments that her husband, Ameen Tahan, is a surgeon. He seems to have had quite the career. I scroll through picture after picture of Stausey and her husband holding huge plaques and diplomas with his name on them.
And I work at a coffee shop . . .
I should fit right in with this family.
I manage to navigate through her photos and find an album named “Bandol,” dated two years ago, and click on the folder. At least fifty pictures load onto my screen. Nora’s sister should update her privacy settings. Any crazy person could find out so much about her in just a few seconds. Especially given the pictures she has here. The photo that catches my eye first is of Stausey in a tiny red bikini, kissing her husband, with his chiseled abs, under the stars.
I keep going to find pictures of Nora. A flash of a yellow bikini catches my attention, and I enlarge the picture. It’s Nora, all right, wearing a strappy yellow bikini that barely contains the curve of her hips. A man is standing next to her; his black hair is thick and heavy on his head. She’s laughing, and his arm is around her waist, holding her to him. I can see the possessive position of his shoulders, and I can sense his ego in the set of his strong jaw. I mean, seriously, the dude could cut a steak with that thing. I brush my hand over my own jawline. I could maybe cut through warm butter?
I stare at the picture for so long that it hurts.
Who is he?
I scroll over the image, hoping either of them are tagged, but no luck. Nervously, I click to the next picture. Nora with her feet in the ocean, a notebook on her lap. She’s wearing the yellow bikini again, but the man from the other picture isn’t in this one. Her hair is braided into two strands, and she’s even more tan here than she is now.
God, she’s beautiful.
Someone knocks at my door, and I jump up. Nora, please be Nora.
I wipe my palms on my sweats and open the door.
A little surprisingly, it is Nora, dressed in black pants and a red shirt with a plunging neckline. Her lips are painted bright red, and her eyes are lined with dark makeup.
“Hey,” she says.
Her lips are so . . . so . . . I can’t form a thought except that I feel immense relief to see her standing here, in my doorway.
“Hey.” I hold the door open for her and she walks past me, her shoulder brushing mine.
When I join her inside and close the door, she grabs hold of my T-shirt and presses her lips against mine.
