Page 30 of Bad Men's Good Girl

"Morning, sunshine."

Amos appears beside me, balancing a plate of pastries and two cups of coffee. His sandy hair is still damp from the shower, and his sleeves are already rolled up despite the early hour. He hands me a cup without asking if I want it—a small gesture that somehow feels enormous.

"You look like someone stole your favorite pen," he says, settling into the chair beside me. "What's the damage assessment this morning?"

"Just thinking about time," I say, accepting the coffee gratefully. The ceramic is warm against my palms, grounding me in the moment. "How it moves faster when you're not paying attention."

Amos leans back in his chair, studying my face with those bright blue eyes that never miss anything. There's something different about his expression today—less of the easy charm andmore of the quiet intelligence he usually keeps hidden behind jokes.

"Ah, the dreaded countdown," he says. "I've seen it hit people around week four. The panic that paradise has an expiration date."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's been watching." His voice drops lower, more serious than I'm used to hearing from him. "I've been doing this for eight years, Baleigh. I've seen hundreds of students go through the same realization. But watching you..."

He trails off, his fingers drumming against the table. The gesture is uncharacteristically nervous for someone who usually radiates confidence.

"Watching me what?"

"Watching you fall in love with this life makes me remember why I started doing it in the first place." He meets my eyes, and there's something raw there, unguarded. "Before it became about logistics and crisis management and never staying anywhere long enough to unpack properly."

The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. I've grown used to Amos the entertainer, the one who can turn any disaster into a story worth telling. But this version—vulnerable and present—feels like a door opening.

"I don't want to go back," I admit, the words tumbling out. "Not to the life I had, anyway. But I don't know how to stay in this one."

Amos leans forward, his elbows on the table, closing the space between us. "What if you didn't have to choose between them? What if there was a third option you haven't considered yet?"

"Like what?"

"Like building something new. Something that takes the best parts of both worlds and leaves the rest behind."

His hand moves across the table, his fingers brushing against mine. The touch is light, questioning, but it sends warmth shooting up my arm. I don't pull away.

"You make it sound simple."

"Maybe it is simple. Maybe we just convince ourselves it's complicated because simple feels too good to be true."

Around us, the courtyard continues its morning rhythm, but the world has narrowed to this table, this conversation, this moment where possibility hangs in the air like morning mist.

"There you are."

Atticus's voice cuts through my conversation with Amos, and I turn to find him approaching our table with that easy stride that makes everything look effortless. His camera hangs around his neck, and there's a mischievous glint in his eyes that immediately puts me on alert.

"I've been looking for you," he continues, pulling up a chair without invitation. "I need a favor."

Amos raises an eyebrow. "Does this favor involve breaking any local laws? Because I'm still dealing with the fallout from your last brilliant idea."

"That wasn't my fault. How was I supposed to know that fountain was considered sacred?" Atticus grins, completely unrepentant. "This is different. Perfectly legal. Mostly safe."

"Mostly safe," I repeat, already feeling my pulse quicken. "That's not exactly reassuring."

"There's an underground jazz club in Trastevere. Real hole-in-the-wall place that tourists never find. They're having an impromptu session tonight, and I need someone to help me document it for an article."

He leans forward, his elbows on the table, and suddenly the space feels charged with possibility. "The catch is, it's invitation only. And the only way to get invited is to perform."

"Perform what exactly?" Amos asks, but his tone suggests he already knows he's not going to like the answer.

"Music. Poetry. Whatever moves you." Atticus's gaze fixes on me, and there's something in his expression that makes my stomach flutter. "I've heard Baleigh sing in the shower. She's got a voice that could stop traffic."