Fiorella nods at whatever he says and disappears into the office behind her.
“Did you burn yourself?”
“No.”
He eyes me like he doesn’t believe that for a second, and for a moment, I forget I’m not supposed to like him. “Let me take that.” He takes the empty cup from my hand and tosses it into the trash, then gently pries the pen and form from my fingers. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
I realize I’m staring. “Yeah. No. I mean—they lost my bag. You speak Italian?”
Ben’s smile tilts humble. “A little.”
Fiorella returns with paper towels, which she passes to him with a flutter of dark lashes. He says something else to her—something thatmakes her blush—and my own cheeks burn, but for entirely different reasons. Even without wearing a cappuccino and looking like I’ve traveled for twelve hours, standing next to Fiorella is a humbling experience. She’s all polished elegance. I’m a hot, soggy mess.
And just like that, I’m seventeen again, standing in the Texas heat, hoping I might someday be enough for a boy like Ben Bradley.
“Here.”
Ben passes the paper towels to me and I blot the stain, but it’s pointless. “It looks like I’ve been stabbed by a cappuccino.”
“It’s artistic,” Ben says, his lip quirking. “Espresso-nist art.”
He waggles his eyebrows at me, clearly impressed with himself. And there’s a tiny traitorous tug in my chest that wants to give him the win. But Athena’s voice cuts through the fog—her warning, which already feels like a lifetime ago.“Ben doesn’t make his money working for the good guys.”
Whatever charm he’s working with—crooked smiles, smoldering brows, espresso puns—it’s just camouflage. And I can’t afford to get distracted by camouflage. No matter how good he looks speaking Italian.
“Thanks, I’ve got it from here.”
“You’re staying at the Villa Serendipitá?”
I scrunch the paper towels in my hand. “Yes.” The word comes out slow, cautious, as I scan his face. “How do you know that?”
“We’re all staying there.”
“Wha—”
Before I can finish, Ben turns back to Fiorella and launches into more of his maddeningly fluent Italian. In the blur of their rapid-fire exchange, he scribbles something on a piece of paper while she rummages through a cabinet. A moment later, they make a trade—the paper for a rolled-up ball of fabric—and somehow he’s slinging my shoulder bag over his own.
“Ready?”
“For what?”
Ben gives me a look like I’ve lost it. Maybe I have. Sleep deprivation and time zones are conspiring against my brain. “To the villa?”
“I’m not going—” I glance at Fiorella, who’s now flipping off lights and locking up for the night. “I still need to find my luggage. The form—”
“All filled out. Fiorella has the villa’s address, the phone number there, and mine. She’ll call when they find your bag.”
Oh, I bet she has his number.
“I can get to the villa on my own.” I try for confidence, but based on how well tonight has gone, my tone is lacking. The way Ben’s eyes crinkle at the edges, he hears it too.
“Put this on.” He hands me the ball of fabric, and I realize it’s a sweatshirt. But the second I catch the writing across the front, I shove it right back into his hands.
“No.”
He frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I snatch it back, flatten it out, and hold it up like evidence. His mouth twitches and his Adam’s apple jumps before he clears his throat with exaggerated innocence.
