Page 18 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

I saunter over and stop, bending down.

It’s a book. A small, burgundy, leather-bound book.

She must have missed it when she rushed out.

I unwrap the string from around it and open it. Then I frown.

It’s not a diary.

It’s not a planner.

It’s a list.

A bucket list.

Something in my chest balls up into a hard knot. I’m impartial to bucket lists. But I read it anyway.

Bucket List (in no particular order)

Cross the country

Go north! Somewhere cold

Get a passport and get out of here

Visit somewhere that is not landlocked

Four corners!

Camp instead of getting a hotel room

Skinny dip in the mountains (hot springs anyone?)

Eat from the land. Farmers’ markets only.

Vineyards. Sonoma, Colorado, Washington

European vineyards.

Lobster rolls in Maine

Become a full-time, financially stable travel journalist/blogger

Visit ALL the beaches. Beaches are officially my love language.

Forget tourist trap 5-star dining. Cook with the locals. Eat what they eat. Make friends!

Go swimming in the wild! No crowded beaches or fancy pools.

Help baby sea turtles into the ocean.

Wear a bikini. Not hate it.

Have sex under the stars.

Go to the House of Blues

Fall in love in New York City.