The memory surfaces uninvited. Rex and Ben had invited some classmates to the ranch, and I spent the day avoiding them, wandering the fields, chasing butterflies. One boy thought it would be hilarious to catch one and kill it. I stood there horrified, my chest tight with something raw and awful. And then I cried, which only led to teasing—but not from Ben or Rex.
It was the first time I could remember that they came to my defense. Ben shoved the boy hard enough to put him on the ground. Rex told everyone to leave. And I was allowed to deal with my emotions privately.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of shovels scraping dirt. Outside my bedroom window, I found Ben and Aunt Renee kneelingbeside a fresh garden bed. They planted flowers, carefully chosen ones with bright petals and sweet nectar that would draw the butterflies back to me.
Ben never said a word. Never asked if it helped. But every summer when the butterflies returned, I knew the answer.
My heart flutters like a traitor, and I drop to the edge of the bed with a groan. The sun pierces the space like it’s on a mission to personally offend me. I should’ve taken Ben up on his offer to switch rooms when he offered. But that would be admitting that he knows me. My gaze slides to the empty plate where a piece of chocolate torte once sat. It was divine. And so what if Ben knows me—it doesn’t mean anything.
No. Nope. We arenotdoing this. Falling for Ben is as dangerous as falling off that ledge—and at least with the ledge, I only risked a broken neck. With Ben? It’s my heart. My mission. My whole existence.
And if Ramirez finds out I’m spying on him? I won’t need a ledge—I’ll get an underwater tour of Lake Lagoverde.
My phone rings. Caller ID says “Daylight Donuts.”
That can only mean one thing. “Hello.”
“Good. You’re up.” It’s Athena.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Yeah, yeah, drink a cappuccino for me.”
“You know it’s surprisingly difficult to order a cappuccino in Italy.”
“What do you mean?”
I grab my outfit from my suitcase and head to the bathroom. “The baristas look at me like I’m asking for a unicorn latte.”
She pauses. “What time are you ordering the drink?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Italians don’t drink cappuccinos after eleven.”
There it is. Humor. That’s what I hear in her voice, and I’m glad she can’t see the blush blooming across my cheeks. Every cappuccino I’ve ordered was well after eleven. “You couldn’t have told me that before?”
“Sorry, I should’ve added ‘coffee etiquette’ after teaching you how to pick locks and encrypt your emails.”
“First rule of coffee etiquette—no sarcasm before the first cup.”
“Sorry. It’s been a long night.”
That grabs my attention. “You’re still at work?”
“Yeah, but it’s fine. The couch in my office is comfier than my bed.”
That sounds like a lie, but I’m too tired to argue. I shove in my earbuds to keep getting ready. “I’m guessing that’s my fault.”
“Not entirely.”
Excellent. Just enough guilt to season my already amazing morning. I sent Athena a message last night after I got back into my room. I told her about the photos I’d taken with my phone of the Aurelite-X plans, omitting the part where I was dangling off a balcony rail or the way Ben still makes my stomach flip.
I’m pretty sure it’s bad form to fall for the guy working with the enemy. Though, in my defense, it seems to work out for James Bond.
And while Ben has the James Bond look going for him, I’m the furthest thing from the debonair secret agent.
“I’ve set up an exchange for you today,” Athena says. “In an hour, go to the Bottega del Caffè. Order a caffè corretto alla lavanda—”
