His brow lifts. “You’re turning down chocolate?”
“I don’t like it.”
Ben cocks his head, skeptical. “The girl I remember stashed bags of these like a chipmunk stocking up for hibernation. You kept bags stashed in your—”
“Maybe I’m not the girl you remember,” I say, cutting him off.
He studies me for a beat, like he’s not sure whether that makes him disappointed or just more intrigued.
I fidget with the ring on my thumb. Spinning it, then tightening it against my knuckle. It’s loose, maybe from the flight. Or nerves. I glance at him, and his eyes catch on my hand.
“It fits,” he says softly.
My throat tightens. The memory of him climbing into the ravine flashes back to mind again. The boy who, without hesitation, went after my ring to save it. A boy I thought I knew.
But that was before... Before now, when I know he works forsomeone like Ramirez. Before everything about him—his charm, his smile, the way he remembers my favorite candy—might be nothing more than a carefully constructed lie. I slide my hand into my lap, away from his view, and turn back to the window.
I can’t afford to forget why I’m here. And I definitely can’t afford to fall for the boy Iusedto know.
The car winds up the circular drive of Villa Serendipitá, headlights sweeping across gravel and stone. It’s late—so late that the town of Lagoverde is nothing but shadows and scattered golden windows dotting the hills. I press my forehead to the glass, trying to catch a glimpse of Italy beyond the night, but the darkness swallows it whole.
When the driver opens my door, my jaw drops at the beautiful Italian villa. Even in the muted glow of exterior lights, it’s stunning.
Honey-colored stone catches the warm glint of lanterns. Green shutters hug arched windows. Ivy and bougainvillea stretch like lazy arms up the walls. I catch just a glimpse of the terra-cotta roof and the lemon trees in the courtyard, and in this moonlit version it looks like a fairy tale.
I want to absorb every bit of it—because places like this don’t happen to me in real life. They happen to people with trust funds or criminal ties.
“The key to your room.”
Ben’s voice pulls me back to reality. While I’ve been admiring tile and inhaling the soft citrus scent, he’s already grabbed his suitcase and collected our room keys from the concierge. He hands me mine.
We cross the courtyard and step into a wide foyer with vaulted ceilings and wrought-iron chandeliers. Everything smells like citrus and polished wood and old money. Or stolen money. Villa Serendipitá is the kind of place you book for a wedding—Godfatherstyle.
“There’s no elevator,” Ben says as we reach the bottom of a grand staircase. “It’s just one floor.”
We climb the stairs and are halfway down the hallway when a man steps through an arched doorway that looks like it’s attached to a veranda. He’s tall, sharp-jawed, and doesn’t look like someone who belongs in this beautiful villa. His gaze slides over me with cool disinterest, but Ben’s body goes stiff. Just a blink of tension that makes me notice the twitch of his jaw.
“Friend of yours?” I ask, nodding toward the guy who’s disappeared back on the veranda.
Ben doesn’t look directly. “No.”
But there’s something about his answer that has me making a mental note. The way Ben shifted—yeah, he knows that guy.
My room is across the hall from Ben’s. He hesitates at his door.
“Do you want to switch rooms?” he asks.
I blink. “Why?”
He shrugs. “The sun rises on that side of the villa. I know you’re not a morning person. Thought you might want the one that stays darker longer.”
My jaw twitches. I hate how predictable he still thinks I am. I plant my hand on my hip and smile sweetly. “Actually, Ilovethe morning now. Nothing better than waking up to the sunlight on my face.”
Ben stares with a look that says he doesn’t buy the lie I’m trying to sell him, but I refuse to let him think he stillknowsme. He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
“I always do.” I slide my card key across the reader, and the light blinks green. The door unlocks. “One more thing,” I glance at Ben over my shoulder. “Will you let me know if Fiorella calls about my luggage?”
“I will,” he says. “But for the record, that sweatshirt’s growing on me.”
