Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“So generous,” I say as I take the penny, then flip it over a few times between my thumb and index finger. “You really want me to make a wish?”
“Yes!”
“For real?”
“We’re at a fountain,” she says, then scans the alley, which is surprisingly quiet. “I won’t tell a soul you made a wish. I’ll protect your grumpster rep.”
“Thanks,” I say, then fiddle with the coin some more, unsure what to wish for, unsure if I should even wish.
Fountains and me, we have a complicated history.
But then, so do Hazel and I.
She tosses her coin into the water with relish, like she enjoys the plink of the metal against the liquid.
“What’d you wish for?” I ask.
She gives me a look, like don’t try to pull that. “I can’t tell you or it won’t come true.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” I ask, with a doubtful rise of my eyebrows.
“Of course I do,” she says, adamant. Huh. She does believe in wishing rules. Who would have thought?
“Hazel Valentine, are you…superstitious?”
“With some things, yes.”
Holy shit. This is excellent fodder. I can use this to poke and prod her. I need new ammo. “Do you avoid black cats, ladders, and opening umbrellas in houses?”
“Why would I need to open an umbrella in a house? It’s never raining inside.”
Fair point. “But the others?”
With a smile, she shakes her head. “No. I only believe in wishes,” she says, soft, almost under her breath.
Like she’s embarrassed to admit it.
This is going to be so good for me. I push on. “What about eyelashes? Do you wish on eyelashes that fall?”
“I do,” she says with a genuine smile.
“And dandelions?” I ask, delighted by this charming fact.
“Yep,” she says in that same vulnerable tone.
And dammit.
That tone makes it impossible for me to tease her about wishes now.
Especially since it’s too hard to look at her right now, with that softness in her lips, that warmth in her eyes.
Instead, I turn to the gurgling water, and I flick the coin into it, making a wish for the trip—a wish that’s entirely in my control. I can make this wish come true all on my own.
“What’d you wish for?” she asks as we leave the alley.
“You told me not to tell a wish.”
“I know. But it’s a natural human impulse to ask what someone’s wish is after they make it.”
“When you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”
She huffs. “Fine. When mine comes true, I’ll tell you what it was.” She offers a hand to seal the deal.
Once again, we shake hands.
Once again, I wonder what it would feel like to yank her against me.
If she asks again about my wish, I’ll lie.
Once again.
13
THE LONG CON
Axel
We visit the Fountain of Neptune next, then the Piazza Colonna. Finally, we trek toward the Trevi Fountain.
The day hurtles toward evening. Hazel yawned only a few times during the afternoon. I might have logged a few too. I am looking forward to bedtime more than I usually do. Sleep is awesome, and it’ll be more awesome tonight.
As the sun dips low, we reach the popular landmark made famous in La Dolce Vita and every travel guide ever created for Rome.
A tourist trap? Yes.
But landmarks become unmissable for a reason. The Trevi Fountain is a stunner. When we arrive at it, Hazel draws a big, satisfied breath then stares at the sight in front of us. She doesn’t snap photos of it. She simply inhales the moment. I can appreciate that even as throngs of tourists surround us, a far too familiar experience for me.
One that takes me way back in time.
To days and years I’d rather not remember.
I try to shake off the unpleasant thoughts. So far, this tour guide routine is a decent way to survive being with her on day one, so I launch into the history of the fountain, how it took thirty years to build and the architect died before seeing its completion, how the fountain’s more gorgeous at night when there are fewer people and it’s illuminated, and how more than three thousand euros are tossed in the fountain daily.
When I’m done, Hazel levels me with a curious stare. “All right, Huxley. What’s the story with you and fountains?”
Whoa. Talk about diving into the deep end with her cross-examination.
“Since I noticed a theme,” she adds.
“Because I took you to fountains after you asked to see them? That’s a theme of mine?” I ask, both reminding her why we’re following this travel route today and deflecting from her insightful question at the same time.
She’s undeterred, though. “You have fountains in a few of your books. There’s usually something noble that happens at one.”
She’s like a fucking microscope zooming in on all my baggage. It’s not fair. But life’s not fair, so I have to be smarter, faster, and nimbler than anyone I encounter.