Page 28

The names of his parents, where he went to college, the deodorant he uses. Actually, the thing looked like it might have been pulled from an immigration website, as though Chris and Gloria are going to be interrogating us the entire time we’re there for a fun, family vacation.

“Okay,” I say, instead of any of that. Because he’s paying me. And because I know extra preparation helps him to soothe his anxiety, and I want him to stop bouncing his knee. What I want is for Patrick to look outside and get hit with a wave of holiday spirit, but apparently that’s not going to happen until he knows we won’t blow our cover. “Let’s go over it all again.”

“Great, okay,” he says, handing me the papers as the plane touches down, the wheels bouncing a few times before they stick to the pavement. Patrick doesn’t even miss a beat. “Okay, so your parents—Paul and Kathleen—were married in 1984…”

Patrick keeps it up as we deboard the plane, as we go through customs, as the staff from the flight deliver our bags directly to us—no waiting outside the carousel!—and as we step into a sleek black car that’s waiting for us.

“Blue. Like navy, as close to black as you can get without just saying black, like most guys.”

“Hey,” Patrick warns, frowning. “That’s not true…is it?”

I roll my eyes, shoot a grin in his direction. “It’s so true. A bunch of guys I know will say black when you ask them what their favorite color is. It’s like admitting they like color will diminish their manhood or something.”

“Interesting,” Patrick says, bringing his hand to his chin. I bite my tongue as I watch his little motions, the ticks that I’ve started picking up myself. It’s a good thing, I know, since it will make our whole relationship more believable, but part of me also feels like I’m just setting myself up to get hurt.

We roll through the streets of downtown Helsinki, buildings with beautiful old architecture passing us on either side as we go. A gentle snow has begun to fall, as though we’re entering a production and the stage crew was just waiting for us to take our places before turning on the effects.

I can’t help it; my mouth is a little open as I stare out the window, my fingers fogging up the glass. The city is full of holiday spirit, with Christmas trees and lights littering the streets. People walk around in thick coats and mittens, bundled up to their necks and laughing in small groups.

It makes my heart ache for home. Miami does have holiday cheer, but most of it is around shopping and spending money, buying gifts for yourself and others. It’s nothing like how it feels to be somewhere cold, to shiver as you walk in the door, brush the snow from your jacket, and hang it up next to the fireplace to get warm.

Turning to Patrick, I open my mouth to tell him about it—about snow days spent with my sisters, building ridiculous snow sculptures like the family dog, a TV, even the time we tried to make a car. Our mom draping our coats over the old water heater to try and warm them for us before we had to walk to school. Teachers layering our gloves and mittens on the heater by the window to melt the snow before it was time to go out and play in it again.

But Patrick is already turning to me, his eyes flashing with something like a warning. He doesn’t look like a man taken by his surroundings, or a man getting ready for a wonderful vacation with his fiancée and friends. He looks like a businessman, eyes sharp and ready for the hunt, locking on something in the distance.

“There’s Chris and Gloria,” he says, dark eyes looking right past me.

Without thinking, I raise a hand to his cheek, which startles him enough that he looks at me, a question in his eyes.

“Take a deep breath,” I mutter, reaching down and lacing my hand in his, like he did when we were shopping together. Chain lightning, every time. “Remember, we’re supposed to love each other.”

Patrick is getting better as an actor because he glances down at our intertwined hands, his eyes softening just as our car pulls up and the Morenos start to greet us, their voices muffled through the glass.

CHAPTER 17

PATRICK

My hand stays firmly in Cami’s as we climb out of the car together—which isn’t that easy, given the hand-holding—and greet the Moreno family. Even having studied up on them, there are more than I remember, with Chris and Gloria at the helm and a whole gaggle of children and grandchildren waiting behind them, kids dipping their hands into the snow and squealing at how cold it is.

They’re all cast in warm light from the streetlamps, standing in their coats with snow flurries falling cinematically around them and down onto their shoulders.

Although we are, technically, still in Helsinki, we must be on the very outskirts of the city. The sky is a little less bright here from the city lights, and it’s quieter.

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Patrick and Cami!”

They cheer like we’re the king and queen. Cami does a little bow, her cheeks merrily flushed, her eyes twinkling like this all makes sense to her. I wonder if this is how her family chooses to greet people—all at once. A mob.

“It’s so nice to meet you!” Gloria says, tucking each of us into a hug. We run through the kids and grandkids so fast I can hardly put a name to the real face: David, who’s single, Elena and her husband Sebastian, Mary and her husband Ray, Theo and his wife Bailey. Grandkids are all muddled together and not staying near their parents, and so are introduced in one wriggling pile—Ben, Stacey, Georgia, Claire, Araya, and the littlest, Stella.

“The guys will take your bags inside,” Chris says, clapping me on the back once the whirlwind of introductions is over. “We’ve got a dinner reservation down the street here.”

“Oh, Chris, they have time to run inside and freshen up.”

“All right, but you’d better hurry. We don’t want to be late.”

“I can wait for them.”

I turn to find a tall man with dark hair like Chris’s standing in a peacoat, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He steps toward me and offers me his hand. “David Moreno. Nice to meet you. Sorry, I know you already got introductions, but I personally wouldn’t have remembered, so…”