Page 12 of Bad Men's Good Girl

Amos stands back near a stone pillar, a bottle of water in one hand, watching me with a quiet, steady expression. The usual mask of the tireless coordinator—the "I have everything under control" smirk—has softened into something more sincere. He looks like a man watching a bird finally figure out it can fly.

As the piazza begins to thin, the group drifts toward the Arno. Amos and I fall back, our pace slowing to a rhythmic wander. The silence of the side streets feels intimate now, rather than lonely.

"I actually had a whole spreadsheet for this week," I admit, kicking a loose pebble. "Color-coded by priority. I think it’s still open on my desk."

"Delete it," Amos says. He’s walking with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed. "Some of the best nights I’ve ever had started with a missed train or a wrong turn into a neighborhood I couldn't pronounce. If you only go where you planned to go, you’re just visiting a museum of your own expectations."

"It’s exhausting," I whisper, the confession slipping out. "I’ve spent my whole life trying to pass a test I didn't even sign up for. Making the 'right' choice feels like holding my breath."

Amos stops, turning to face me. The amber light of a wall-mounted lantern carves deep shadows across his face, making him look older, more grounded.

"Baleigh, life isn't a pass-fail exam," he says softly. "There’s no final grade waiting for you back home. You aren't going to 'break' your life by choosing the wrong street or the wrong job. You’re just living it."

The river air tastes of stone and ancient water. We lean against the thigh-high wall of the Lungarno, watching the yellow moon shatter across the surface of the Arno. Behind us, the music from the piazza has faded into a ghostly pulse, enough to remind me I was there but quiet enough to let the city breathe. My heels ache in a way that feels like an achievement.

Amos is currently explaining his theory that the quality of a gelato shop is inversely proportional to the height of its whipped cream mountains.

"If it looks like a neon skyscraper, run for your life," he says, gesturing wildly. "It’s all air and lies, Baleigh. You want the stuff buried in the metal tins. The stuff that looks like beige mud. That’s where the truth is."

I laugh, and the sound doesn't feel forced or polite. It doesn't feel like the laugh I give my aunts when they ask about my "five-year plan."

I look up at the sky, which lacks the terrifying vastness of the North Carolina countryside. Here, the stars have to compete with centuries of terracotta and marble, and somehow, that makes them feel more reachable. I expected Italy to be a series of grand, cinematic revelations—me standing on a mountaintop, screaming my independence into the wind. I expected a rebellion.

But as I watch Amos mimic a terrified tourist's reaction to "fake" pistachio, I realize freedom isn't a loud, crashing wave. It’s the absence of the grit in my shoe.

The frantic internal auditor in my brain has gone on strike. She isn't checking the time. She isn't wondering if this conversation is productive or if my hair looks like a bird's nest. I’m standing on a bridge in a dress that’s slightly wrinkled, eating fried dough with a man who thinks spreadsheets are a form of torture, and the world hasn't ended.

I’m not "trying" to be adventurous. I’m just standing here.

"You're doing it again," Amos says, nudging my shoulder with his.

"Doing what?"

"Thinking. I can practically hear the gears grinding from here. Are you cataloging the types of bridge stone?"

"No," I say, leaning my weight into the cold marble. "I was just thinking that this is the first time in a decade I haven't felt like I was running late for something."

"Good," he says, his gruff voice dropping an octave as he looks out at the water. "Late is just a state of mind, anyway."

I look at him—the easy slant of his posture, the way he occupies space without apologizing for it—and I feel a strange, steady permission. I don't need to be the girl who has it allfigured out, and I don't need to be a revolutionary. I just need to be Baleigh. And tonight, Baleigh is exactly where she wants to be.

8

ATTICUS

The morning light across my apartment floor is a harsh, uncompromising white. I’ve spent two hours hunched over my light table, sliding transparencies and digital proofs into rows that don't quite sing. My editor wants "The Hidden Pulse." He wants the Florence that doesn't sell keychains and plastic statues of David.

I scroll through a folder of potential assistants provided by the agency—bored graduates with expensive lenses and practiced pouts. Then my phone pings. A last-minute cancellation from the lighting tech I’d booked.

I toss my pen onto the desk. The typical travel influencer would spend the day complaining about the lack of Wi-fi in the Oltrarno workshops or worrying about their makeup melting in the Tuscan humidity. I need someone who actually looks at things.

My mind skips back to Baleigh. I remember the way she looked at a crumbling brick wall like it was a masterpiece. She has this raw, uncurated wonder that’s become a rare currency in my world.

I pull up her number and type:I’m short-staffed on a shoot for a feature today. It involves a lot of walking and even more caffeine. Interested?

The reply is near-instant.Yes! Just tell me where.

An hour later, I’m leaning against the sun-warmed stucco of a café that doesn't have an English menu. Baleigh rounds the corner, her hair a bit windblown, a smudge of ink on her thumb. She’s breathless, her eyes darting toward the tiny, unmarked door of the coffee shop.