Finding It (Losing It, #3)(50)

“I’m serious. I’m trying to get the full picture of Kelsey Summers.”

It wasn’t a pretty picture, but if he wanted it …

“Fine,” I said. “My favorite Christmas has got to be by default the one before the first one I can remember.”

He looked down, squeezing my fingers between his own. “That’s really sad.”

“Yeah, well, my family is sad.”

“What made it so bad?”

I propelled myself back against the pillows, letting go of his hand.

“Can we talk about something else?”

He wanted to push. I could hear it in the silence, in his careful breaths, in the creak of the bed as he leaned forward for just a few seconds before rolling away.

“You go shower. I’ll figure out what we’re doing today.”

God, we were both so bad at this. There was no way it could work, not that I really even knew what “working” would entail.

Released from his questioning, I fled for the bathroom.

I took my time, enjoying the way the hot water loosened my sore muscles, but ever conscious of the other body just outside the bathroom with only a wall between us.

I decided we’d been still long enough. Neither of us was good with words. We were action people, which was why last night had worked. We didn’t talk. Maybe it was time for a little push. So when I got out of the shower, I ignored the pile of clothes in the bathroom and exited the room in my towel.

“I told you everything is fine.”

I said, “I forgot my—”

Then stopped because Hunt’s back was to me and he was on the phone.

He whipped around, and I lowered my voice, “I, um, I forgot something. Sorry.”

In a quiet voice, he said into the phone, “I have to go now. No. No. Thank you, but I have to go.”

He lowered the phone, but I could still hear the faint sound of someone talking on the other end before he hung up.

I picked up a pair of socks, the first thing I saw in my backpack, and said, “Who was that?”

“What?” He didn’t look at me. “Oh. Just the concierge, wondering if we’d decided when we were checking out yet.”

I stood there, a puddle collecting on the floor below me, in nothing but a towel holding a pair of pointless socks, and still he didn’t even glance my way.

I couldn’t tell whether I was more distressed by his lack of reaction or the tense set of his shoulders. A conversation with the concierge shouldn’t do that. And if he was only asking if we were staying, shouldn’t that have been a simpler, shorter call?

Maybe he was just tense about us, and the phone call had nothing to do with it.

I stayed staring for a few more seconds before fleeing to the bathroom. I had almost closed the door when I heard him ask, “What do you think about taking a train to the coast? Maybe the Italian Riviera?”

I poked my head back out of the bathroom, and he was sitting stiffly on the bed, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

It looked like we’d be saying goodbye to our Florence refuge after all. Perhaps our secrets were getting too big for this small room.

I said, “Okay. Sounds good.”

The words echoed off the tile walls around me, and I felt that hole in my chest opening up, and the fear creeping in.

The small village of Riomaggiore was set into a cliff side on the Italian Riviera, and I knew from the moment that I stepped off the train that I was going to love this place. The air smelled fresh and salty, and the wind curled up from the ocean, tossing my hair. At the edge of the train platform was a wall, and beyond that a turquoise blue sea.

I rushed to the edge, desperate to soak in the view. Craggy black rocks were decorated with white sea foam, and stood out against the vibrant blue waters. Waves crashed against the rock, and I swear I could feel the spray all the way up on the platform.

I squealed and threw my arms around Hunt’s neck.

“This is good?” he asked.

“Very good.”

This was worth leaving Florence.

Hunt had told me on the train where we were going. There were five villages collectively called Cinque Terre that sat along the coastline. They were part of some kind of protected wilderness area or park, so there was almost nothing modern about the villages, just the train in and out. We would spend today and tomorrow, our last two days, exploring and hiking from village to village.

If all five villages were as beautiful as this train platform, I was sold.

We left the station and headed to the city to find lunch and a place to stay. There was no lack of either. We stopped at a small restaurant, and I had the most delicious pesto in the history of the universe. I didn’t even particularly like pesto, but Cinque Terre made me a believer.

The waiter at the restaurant recommended a family down the road that rented out an apartment attached to their home. On the way, I marveled at the village. The homes were stacked up like building blocks and painted in vibrant colors. There were orange and yellow and pink buildings with blue and green and red shutters. Everywhere I looked was something worthy of capturing in a picture—from a fading turquoise door, whose stories you could almost detect through the splintering wood and peeling paint, to a small boy, skin tanned from the sun, with bare feet toughened by rough roads and the sweet cradle of a soft stray cat in his arms.

Hunt’s hand touched the small of my back, and I leaned into him instinctively. “This is wonderful,” I said. “I just … I’ve never seen anything like it.”