Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(103)

“Likely Portlaoise.”

“And Aengus?”

“Same.” He sighs, that perpetual cloud that comes with any mention of his older brother rolling in. “That should keep the guards busy.”

I wonder what will become of Aengus. Whether he’ll even survive, or if River is right and he’s simply living on borrowed time. I don’t really care, but I know it’ll hurt River if something happens, and I can’t bear the idea of that.

I weave my fingers through his. “Have you looked into a passport at all?”

“I did. We’ll see what happens. It could take a while.” He doesn’t sound hopeful.

We sit in silence as the sun slowly descents along the horizon. I know that a mesmerizing blanket of stars waits in the wings for darkness. It reminds me of back home and years of lying across the hood of a car, taking in the vast night sky. A home that is not only thousands of miles away but now feels like light-years in the past. I don’t know how I’m simply supposed to go back to it. And what? Pretend that this amazing thing didn’t happen? That River doesn’t exist? Or just chalk it up to a life experience? I may still be Amber Welles to my core, but my life has been irrevocably changed by this man and I can’t pretend otherwise.

“So . . . what’s the plan again? Spain, then France, and then Italy, is it?” he asks softly.

A lump forms deep in my throat. The last thing I want to be doing is talking about all the places where I’ll be without River. “You’d better respond to my texts. Whenever I message you, you drop everything.”

“So ya want me at your beck and call, basically?”

I nuzzle against his neck, the scruff from his chin scratching against my nose. “Not basically. Exactly.”

He chuckles, but it’s a heavy sound. “You could save yourself the hassle and just stay here. You can have me whenever you want, in the flesh.”

There it is. I know he’s not trying to make me feel guilty, but my tears begin streaming all the same. “It’s just something I need to do. For me. I’m sorry.”

“I know. You can’t think straight when you’re around me. It’s the same way I am with you.” His arms tighten around me. “But don’t worry. You’ll see that you’re meant to be here soon enough.”

I laugh, even as I cry. “You sound so sure.”

“I am sure. Which reminds me . . .” River shifts behind me. There’s just enough light to recognize Alex’s handwriting on the creased piece of paper he holds out.

I snatch it from his grip, laughing as I scan over the lines again. How had I forgotten about this?

He produces a pen almost magically. “See anything you want to check off?”

“Number twelve, definitely. And thirty-two.”

“Anything else?”

I stare at that first line and swallow.

1. Have a torrid affair with a foreigner. Country: TBD.

It was a joke when Alex wrote it down, a tease for River when he discovered it, and a secret wish for me in those first days with him. And yet now that I read it again—after what we’ve been through in such a short time—it feels wrong to think of what we had, or have, as nothing more than a torrid affair.

That makes it sound like it’s already over.

“No.”

“So . . . you’re keeping that one open?”

The very idea of being with another guy makes me ill. I drag the tip of the pen through number one.

I shiver at the feel of his hot breath against my ear. “I took the liberty of adding a line. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Really?” I flip the page and see the new handwriting at the bottom.

My heart stutters.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Amber

Sweat trickles down the nape of my neck as I climb the uneven stone steps, dragging my suitcase along behind me. I think the wheels may snap off at any moment, which will make the many days of travel ahead that much more difficult. It’s been quite the production to get here as it is, two trains and six hours later.

It’s worth it, though, I surmise, taking in the sand-colored caves ahead of me. It was a pure fluke that I stumbled upon this place over a year ago—an incorrect Google search that led me to a travel blog for the south of Italy. It was there that I found Sextantio le Grotte della Civita, a series of prehistoric caves that have been transformed into a boutique hotel just outside of Matera, not far from the Adriatic Sea. As soon as I saw the pictures of the candlelit rooms and the honeycombed walls, I knew I had to splurge, even if for only one night.

Still, I’m sweaty and tired and covered in a layer of travel dust. My hair is sticking to my skin. All I want right now is a long soak in my bathtub with the balcony doors kicked wide open.

The patient, smiling receptionist inside the rustic entryway—an almost ethereal woman with crystal-blue eyes and thick, shiny raven hair cascading down her back—checks me into my cave, one of only eighteen, which I reserved a year ago and thankfully didn’t cancel, back when I was with Aaron and willing to give up this life-changing experience.

Finally, I step into my room. I push my battered suitcase to the side and toss my purse on the bed, relishing the temperature change in here as compared to the scorching midday sun outside. It’s as picturesque as the hotel’s website promised, the view of the mountains beyond the balcony even more so.