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“No problem.” Nico unfastens himself from the doorway and swaggers toward me. “You keep a diary?” He stands over my nightstand, running his index finger down the cover of my leather-bound notebook.
“It’s more of an emotional-support journal.”
Nico shifts his attention back to me. “Huh?”
“It’s like a comfort blanket. I do everything digitally, y’know save the trees and all, but there’s something about carrying around a journal. Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
“Anything and everything. Inspiration, a reminder, someone’s phone number. Maybe for the sake of feeling pen glide over paper.”
“What kind of inspiration?”
I tuck my legs underneath me. It seems we’re both weaving around questions. “Was the tea a decoy for a full-fledged interrogation?”
“Yes, Lily Rodin.” He sits on the edge of my bed, facing me. “Please tell me, how do you feel about breakfast?” Nico sounds like a lead detective in a true crime series. I pocket the rush the image gives me for a novella idea.
I contemplate with an exaggerated pause. “I hate it.”
Nico mock gasps. “Liar.”
“Where is your evidence, detective?”
“Montauk, last summer. You said verbatim, ‘Breakfast is the foreplay meal of the day.’ If I recall the morning correctly, you claimed you’d never skip such an important event.”
The previous rush of curiosity brims my mind. Has he been keeping notes on me?
“Sounds nothing like me.” I turn my gaze toward the ceiling, but catch him watching me in my peripheral.
“Then it’s safe to assume you wouldn’t be interested in the assortment of breakfast foods stationed out on the balcony right now?”
“Are you serious? Of course I am.” I shoot off the bed and exit my room. “You made me play that entire game when you had food out here? I was moments away from breaking under the cross-examination and claiming neglect.”
“Neglect?”
“Yes, for working me up tohangrystatus.”
“Don’t worry, breakfast isn’t going anywhere.”
The corners of my lips tug upward. “I stand by my words. One should never skip foreplay.”
“It’s the best part of the day.” Nico trails behind me, and I can almost hear his smile.
Our two-bedroom suite has stone floors, bamboo furniture, a large kitchen, and floor-to-ceiling beach-view windows. There’s a massive beige couch in the middle of the living room.
It’s a bungalow-meets-modern vibe.
Warm air nuzzles my skin as I step onto the tiled balcony, which has an outdoor shower surrounded by glass. Even though it’s wintertime here, the temperature is more comfortable than it was in Northern California.
In the distance, the beach is busy, and small sailboats bob across the water. Urban mountains jut up from the ocean’s edge, and miles of white sand meet with the turquoise wash of foamy waves.
On the bamboo table in the middle of the balcony are two large bowls with fruits in every color of the rainbow.
“Is that açaí?” I ask.
“Yep. Apparently, the cafe downstairs has some of the best in the city.” Nico pulls out a chair for me, and I slide onto the cushioned seat. I shovel a spoonful of the whipped purple mixture into my mouth. My taste buds light up at the abundance of rich flavors.
“Yum,” I say as Nico sits opposite me.
