“No, actually,” I sigh and stand up. “I have to go pack.”
I head inside.
“Why?” he calls after me. “Why can’t we work it out?”
I pause looking over my shoulder.
“There’s nothing to work out. I can’t give you something that I don’t have.
Chapter Eighteen
Eight hours later, I am sitting in business class, sipping on a coke and drumming my fingers impatiently on the beverage tray in front of me.
Caleb and the Scarlet Beast are in Rome. Yes, that’s what I said, Rome. The Bahamas weren’t good enough for her and neither was Marco Island; both of which were listed as top baby making locations on her computer’s Internet history. Instead, she opted for The De La Ville Inter-Continental hotel where her favorite actress Susan Sarandon became pregnant. How do I know such a personal detail? Because, along with breaking into her home with my psychotic best friend, I also hacked into her email account and read a correspondence between her mother and herself.
“Is this your first time to Rome?”
I look over and see a pair of very green eyes looking at me from the seat next door.
“Um, yes,” I clip my words so that I sound as rude as possible and look back out the window. Yucky—chit chattery. I am in no mood to converse. I am on the most important mission of my life.
“You’re going to love it. It’s the best place in the world.”
“Yea, to make babies,” I mumble.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Oh, nothing,” I say. “I’m going there on business, so it’s all work and no fun for me,” I laugh shrilly and pretend to dig around in my purse for something.
“Too bad. You should at least make time to see the Coliseum—absolutely amazing.” I look over at him now because that’s actually not a bad idea. Holy crap! I’m going to Rome! I’m now officially excited. In all the commotion of booking a ticket, throwing things in a suitcase and breaking up with Turner, it completely escaped me.
“Maybe I will,” I say, smiling at him. He wasn’t bad looking. Actually, he was roguishly handsome with coal black hair, caramel skin, and a chiseled jaw. He had one of those distinctly Jewish noses. I suddenly feel self-conscious about my pasty complexion.
“Noah Stein,” he offers me his hand and I take it. “Olivia Kaspen.”
“Olivia Kaspen,” he repeats, “That’s a very poetic name.”
“Well, that’s about the strangest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
I pull a face and he smiles.
“What do you do for a living?” I ask, trying to sound pleasant. Oh, my gosh—I just broke up with Turner—oh-my-gosh!
“I own my own business. You?”
“Lawyer,” I say. I look down and see that my hands are shaking.
“I have to go to the ladies room, do you mind?” He shakes his head and scoots out into the aisle so that I can get past. I almost knock a little girl and a stewardess over as I stumble toward the signs for the lavatory.
Once inside, I collapse in front of the toilet and throw up.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
My entire life has changed in the last few hours and I’m just now realizing it. Turner, poor Turner, but not really, because he dated me for Superbowl tickets. But he loved me, right? Did I love him? No. It was the right thing to do, breaking up with him. It was the only thing to do. I rinse my mouth in the sink and lean back against the wall. This was insanity; rushing off to Italy, chasing after my ex-boyfriend- all on a whim. What would my mother say? I stifle a sob and bite my lip. Alone in Rome; I didn’t even speak Italian, for Pete’s sake. This was bad. This was really, really bad.
I go back to my seat and Noah graciously lets me in without a word about my swollen face. After taking a few large swigs of my flat soda, I slide two fingers underneath my eyes to clear up any smudgy mascara and turn to Noah, frowning.
“I’m not going to Rome on business,” I say, and he doesn’t look surprised. Why should he? He doesn’t know that I’m a perpetual liar.
“Oh,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “Ok.”
I take a deep breath. It feels exhilarating to tell the truth.
“I’m going to find Caleb Drake and when I do, I have to tell him the truth about everything. I am so scared.”
He looks at me with new interest. I’ve transitioned from being a pretty girl, to a woman of intrigue.
“What type of truth is it?”
“A messy one. There’s going to be a lot of clean-up,” I sigh.
“I’d like to hear about it.”
I shift under his gaze. He has the intensity of a nuclear weapon in those two green orbs.
“It’s a long story.”
“Well,” he says raising his hands and looking around the cabin. “It’s going to be a long flight.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you on one condition,” I say, pulling my legs up to my chest and holding them there. Noah looks at my knees and then my face like he can’t quite grasp why a grown woman is sitting like a little girl. “You have to tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done.”
“The worst thing I’ve ever done?” he looks off into some distant memory and grimaces.
“When I was in the ninth grade, there was this girl in my class whom we called Felicity Fattness. As a prank I snuck into her backyard and stole a pair of her underwear off the line and then hung them on the schools front door with a sign that said, Felicity Fattness Wears Parachute Panties. When she saw it, she burst into tears, tripped over her school bag and had to be rushed to the emergency room to have five stitches put into her chin. I felt horrible—still do actually.”
“That was mean,” I say, nodding.
“Yeah, she’s a total babe now. I saw her at my high school reunion and asked her out on a date. She laughed at me, said I’d already seen her panties once and it wouldn’t be happening again.”
I laugh—a real laugh, so that my whole body shakes. Noah joins me. I am still smiling, when I realize that I have another boy scout on my hands.
“So, Felicity? That’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
“I stole a magnet from the dollar store once.”
“Oh boy,” I say. “I’m not sure you’re ready for my story.”