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“Why not?”
“Because it’s not a place where you connect with your mom.”
With your mom. She hadn’t even realized what she’d said. And perhaps she was just generalizing, but I chose to take it as something more meaningful. I walked back to her and engulfed her in a big hug.
“I love you, Isabella.”
Her face softened for a brief moment before her teenage shield set back into place. “I’m still not adding you.”
I walked down the stoop. Garrett’s mom smiled and nodded her approval. “I’ll text you when I land.”
“You’re going to be in L.A. Text me some pictures of celebrities, or hot guys at least.”
“I only post those on Snapchat. You’ll have to follow me to see them,” I yelled as I got back into the waiting cab.
Pulling the door closed, I waved one last time and mumbled to myself, “Plus, you’re keeping away from the good-looking ones, Nat. Remember?”
Famous last words.
Chapter 7
Natalia
Flying into LAX always amused me.
Drivers in suits were two layers deep behind a gated area next to baggage claim. I read their signs as I stepped off the escalator, rolling my carry-on luggage.
Mr. Spellman.
Piedmont.
Laroix family.
Mr. Damon.
Hmmm. I wonder if it’s Matt Damon. This is L.A., after all. I kept walking as I browsed. Most were hand-written on white boards with erasable markers, although some were typed and printed out. One particular sign caught my eye—not because it had my first name, but because it was written on what looked like a ripped piece of a brown paper bag. The handwriting was slanted and slashy and almost illegible. But as I got closer, I figured out the last name. The sign read:
Natalia Sbagliato-Numero
I said it aloud in my head once before it all clicked together.
Natalia.
Sbagliato. Italian for wrong.
Numero. Meant number in Italian.
Natalia Wrong Number?
I felt it before my eyes raised to the face of the man holding the sign. An inexplicable warmth settled low in my belly, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rose to attention. But when my eyes met those of the man with the cocky smile, I did the only thing I was capable of—tripping over my own feet and falling flat on my ass.
***
“Are you okay?”
It was impossible to play it cool sprawled out on my ass in the airport with a pink face heated from a mixture of embarrassment, excitement, and anger. Plus, Hunter was even more good looking than I remembered—ruggedly handsome, kissed by the California sun, and packaged in a casual and confident wrapper that made my knees glad I was on the floor. But as much as I liked the full package before me, I hated that he made me feel off kilter. I rolled with the hate part.
“What are you doing here?”
