“Of course,” I whisper. “Perfect timing, you dramatic little rectangle.”
I shove it into my jacket pocket and stare at the retaining wall.
It comes up to my ribs.
Climbable, technically.
Friendly? Absolutely not.
I wait until the guard pacing the rear terrace turns away, then hurry across the last stretch of dirt and pine needles. My boots slide once, and I nearly face-plant into a bush, but I catch myself on the wall.
Tiny victory.
I grab the top stones and haul myself up.
This is where an athletic woman would swing over gracefully.
I am not that woman.
I am built for long mornings over a hot stove, kneading dough, flipping hash browns, carrying giant bags of flour because Pete at the diner says he’ll help and then mysteriously vanishes whenever lifting is required.
I am soft thighs, round hips, and a deep personal hatred of cardio.
So I get one leg over the wall, make a small dying sound, and end up straddling it like an anxious gargoyle.
“Okay,” I breathe. “We’re fine.”
The universe disagrees.
A flashlight sweeps across the woods behind me.
Voices drift closer.
I freeze.
“Thought I heard something,” a man says.
“It’s the trees,” another answers. “Or maybe a deer.”
Yes.
Exactly.
A curvy, terrified deer in discount boots.
The flashlight moves away.
I exhale, shift my weight, and promptly tumble over the wall.
I land in a hydrangea bush.
For one full second, all I know is leaves, dirt, and the deep spiritual humiliation of being defeated by landscaping.
Then music pulses from inside the villa, and reality snaps back into place.
I crawl out of the bush and crouch low in the side garden. The cracked service window is ten feet away. The rear terrace is farther down, maybe fifteen or twenty feet past the corner, close enough that if someone steps outside, they could see me.
Fantastic.
