An Italian on the run from the Mafia. A reporter seeking the truth. Will they reveal their feelings before danger strikes?
*****
Reclusive writer Luca Ross...
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It was stupid, but I hoped Luca was looking at my Instagram feed.
I snapped a selfie, then one of Matt and some guy from advertising as we sat at a table near the bar. My cleavage looked pretty awesome, if I did say so myself, in the low, U-neck cotton dress—one of many I'd bought on sale in anticipation of a hot Florida summer.
I uploaded the photo and considered the hashtags while smirking. The previous weekend, when I was at Luca's house—when we were getting along—I'd persuaded him to sign up for Instagram under a fake, anonymous account name _Italy-Man111_ and he'd followed me.
After deadline. #VodkaRedBull #80snight #Partylikeajournalist
I slammed back that first drink, the alcohol a comforting burn sliding down my throat. Then I sipped my second because my stomach was approaching queasytown.
It wasn't because of the booze. My stomach had been like this for days, ever since the fight with Luca. Now, it was Friday night, five days later, and I was at the Iguana listening to stupid '80s music.
I should have tried to join in the conversation with my newsroom friends about that day's selection of front-page stories, or about the massive layoffs at several Florida papers, but talking about journalism held no appeal. Instead, a memory of Luca drifted into my mind. We'd been on the beach one afternoon the previous weekend and he had kissed me ferociously, as if it were the final kiss of his life.
I got sweaty behind my knees just thinking of it.
When I snapped out of my reverie, my friends were still talking. The thought of never kissing or touching Luca again made my stomach hurt more. Scooping up my phone, I checked my texts, voicemail, and email for the thousandth time.
Like he'd ever messaged me or emailed me. Really, he'd only ever called a few times and never left voicemail. He'd left no trace of himself in my life, and it almost made me sob when I realized he probably wanted it that way.
Thank God I hadn't had sex with him. At least I was getting out of this relationship with a gossamer-thin thread of dignity. Annoyingly, I'd left some clothes and my favorite lipstick at his house, and I thought about drunk-dialing him when I got home. I imagined teasing him on the phone, enticing him into coming to my house...
No. I was still angry at him for acting like an ass.
The DJ said something about how that evening was called The Flashback Café, and how he was going to play some classic, slow-dance '80s songs. I rolled my eyes at Matt, who chuckled.
Matt. He was single. He was cute. Maybe I should hook up with him to forget Luca. He'd driven me to the Iguana tonight, and would be driving me home. So maybe he'd been thinking along the same lines...
No. Screwing Matt was a shitty idea if I'd ever had one. Imagine if I did and we had to face each other in the newsroom or go on another assignment together? I shuddered at the possible complications such a scenario would cause.
