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His laugh is warm and it sets my face flushing. Suddenly, I’m glad that the air conditioning doesn’t work here.
“Work, actually,” he says. “And if you’ll believe it, my flight happened to have arrived two hoursearly.”
“Sounds like you’re really early,” I tell him. “By Italian standards, of course.”
“You could say that.” He laughs again. “If you’re willing to wait a bit, I can give you a ride. Free of charge.”
“I wish I could,” I tell him apologetically, my heart plummeting. “But like I said, I’m already late. But maybe I’ll see you out there?”
“Maybe.” His smile widens ever-so-slightly, and my heart skips another beat.
I turn and take another glance at the carousel.
There it is!
The black luggage is identical to a number of bags going around the belt, but the bright pink Hello Kitty tag on the handle is unique—a gift from my sister Olivia right before she left home for good.
Seeing it is also a punch to the gut. My hand hovers in the air briefly, almost as if it doesn’t want to touch the bag.
But it starts to circle out of reach on the carousel. I close my fingers around the handle and yank off at the last second.
“Well, good luck with everything!” I tell the handsome stranger.
“Have fun,” he replies. “And try your best not to run into anyone else while you’re out here.”
You’re the only one I want to run into again.But for some reason, the words don’t leave my mouth.
Rolling my bag through the exit, I walk away from him, sparing him one last look as sweat slowly starts to dampen my whiteshirt. He never breaks eye contact with me, and for the third reckless moment of the day, I almost want to run back towards him to tell him that Iwilltake up his offer for the ride.
But maid of honor duties beckon, and I can’t just duck out on my responsibilities. So, giving the handsome stranger one final wave goodbye, I walk past the doors and emerge into the blistering hot sun as a cacophony of voices erupts around me, beckoning me to choose one of the myriads of taxis lined up at the arrivals gate.
“Need a ride, signorina?”
I stand quickly to face the man speaking to me. He’s dressed in a loose-fitting tan shirt with a deep V-neck.
“Do you take credit cards?” I ask, realizing I haven’t had a chance to exchange any money.
He looks me up and down, then opens my door for me. “Sure.”
I get in, wrinkling the bridge of my nose as the smell of sweat and stale cigarettes assaults my nostrils.
“Where to?” he asks.
“Amalfi Central Hotel?”
“Ah!” he nods. “Three hours. If we’re lucky, two and a half!”
“Is it actually that far?”
I’m pretty sure the route I looked up only said an hour and a half.
“Lots of traffic, today, signorina,” he answers with a toothy grin. “Can’t go any faster, I’m afraid.” I blink, and he fans his fingers by his face. “Unless you prefer to wait for someone else.”
If you’re willing to wait a bit, I can give you a ride. Free of charge.
My hand reaches for the door handle but I stop myself.
I’m late enough as it is without indulging in unrealistic fantasies about hot strangers in Italy. So, with a resigned sigh, I click my seat belt in, tug it extra tight, and offer up a weak smile knowing that I’m about to get hustled.
