bChapter /bb125 /b

    EMILIA

    Evening rolls in faster than I expect, and somehow – I’m actually having fun. More than fun, even. I’m smiling. Laughing. And I don’t even have to pretend.

    At some point, Liam convinced me that a walking tour was a brilliant idea. And

    annoyingly he was right.

    “The scenery here is unreal,” I whisper, eyes soaking in the golden sky, the cobblestone path, the way the light hits the buildings just right. What I don’t say is that he’s half the reason everything feels beautiful.

    He leans down to answer, voice close to my ear – always my right ear. Ever since I told him I’m half–deaf in my left, he’s never once stood on that side. Never had to be reminded.

    “Better than wasting daylight in the shade, huh?”

    “Not a chance.”

    We were able to find a store to get dry clothes, thankfully my old ones weren’t exactly

    favourites of mine.

    Actually, I think the shirt was a gift from Zane. Good riddance.

    “You can never let me win, huh? If it really is such a burden, we can go back to the beach.”

    I pout. “But then we’d have to walk there, too.”

    “Smartass.”

    Iugh, but I’m too busy staring at him to fullymit. The new outfit I picked out for him is doing way too much. ck fits him like it was made for his skin, for his frame, for the way he moves. The shirt we found was a size too small, thanks to those obnoxiously broad

    shoulders of his.

    It clings. In the best way.

    Truly, a public service.

    He stretches his arms above his head, and I swear my soul leaves my body for a second.

    “You’re staring,” he says, catching me mid–eyes–glued–to–his–biceps.

    “You wish,” I shoot back, but my face is already hot. And he knows it.

    He leans in again, smirking. “You picked out the shirt, Emilia.”

    I lift my chin. “So I wouldn’t have to suffer through your terrible fashion sense.”

    –

    He grins wider, and God — it’s so unfair how pretty his smile is.

    “You wound me,” he says, mock dramatically, hand over his heart. “But I’ll forgive you. Because right now? You look really happy. And beautiful. But you always look beautiful, that isn’t surprising.”

    My chest squeezes. Hard.

    I look away first. But not before he reaches for my hand. Not before he intertwines our

    fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

    He squeezes my hand softly, and I squeeze back, trying not to melt into the pavement.

    —

    We end up ditching the tourpletely because of course we do. But just as we turn the corner, we spot the camera crew from earlier. And they spot us, too.

    Liam freezes. “Abort mission.”

    “What?”

    “Run.”

    “What?!”

    “Run!”

    –

    I’m alreadyughing as we bolt in the opposite direction, hand in hand, weaving between tourists andmp posts like we’re in a ro chase scene. He’s faster, obviously because professional athlete but he keeps pace with me, pulling me gently along.

    –

    We duck behind a building and he huffs out augh, hair a little messyb, /beyes sparkling. “I

    think we lost them.”

    “Pretty sure one of them tripped over a baguette,” I say, breathless and grinning.

    He throws his head back andughs — full, real, boyish. “That’s going in the highlight

    reel.”

    —

    Before I can ask what highlight reel or what that even is gestures dramatically toward the street.

    “Taa–daa,” he says, like a magician unveiling his grand finale.

    A horse–drawn carriage pulls up right beside us. 1

    My jaw drops. “You did not.”

    he straightens up and

    “Oh, but I did,” he says, proudly, helping me up like some kind of fairytale prince. “When in Europe, right?”

    “We’re not in Europe, Liam.”

    “Details, Emilia. Details.”

    The rider turns around to ask something then freezes mid–sentence.

    –

    His eyes go wide. His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

    “You’re…” he blinks hard, stammering in ented English. It’s simr to Tessa’s when she’s

    mad. So Russian, I guess. “You’re Liam Calloway.”

    Liam gives him a grin and a casual little salute. “That’s me.”

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