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“Lanie. You hid from him at brunch.”

“You don’t think he’s attractive?”

I did not mean to ask that. I’m not sure why it would matter to me whether Meg thinks Noah is cute. Still... does she?

“His attractiveness is not in question,” Meg says. “Your awkwardness is. You like him. You should go for it—”

“It’s a nonstarter!” I say, more forcefully than intended. But it is true, even if I can’t explain in more detail to Meg. Even if I can’t explain to myself why a tiny part of me feels disappointed.

Chapter Thirteen

“Did you know,” I say to Noah as we enter the castle-like museum the next morning, “that this place was built out of the reassembled pieces of five legitimately medieval French cloisters?”

He stops walking and turns to me, a smile held in his eyes. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do.” He presses his palms together. “We’re going to stand right here, and you’re going to unleash all your museum docent facts. Every single one. Just nail me with them. Purge your system, Lanie. After that? We’re going to walk around like regular people and enjoy our time at this place.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll shut up. I can take a hint. Even a very overt one.”

We start walking again, our footsteps echoing through the gray stone arches of the abbey. “You know, two weeks ago you would have reamed me for ribbing you like that,” he says.

“Two weeks ago, you hadn’t broken into my ex-fiancé’sbrownstone,” I tell him as we pause before a series of elaborate unicorn tapestries. I read that they were dyed with the same plants cultivated in the garden outside, but I am keeping that fascinating tidbit to myself.

He smiles. “It’s rare that I get to put those skills to use.”

We stop before an apse, whose recessed walls are all stained glass. Noah studies a panel of a Madonna and child. He takes out his phone and snaps a picture. “This place is really special.”

I’m tempted to take a stab at pronouncing the Austrian city where I read these windows came from, but I can tell Noah is absorbing the atmosphere, and so, I leave a tender moment alone.

I can’t help sneaking glances at him. Things I’ve noticed about Noah without realizing I was noticing: His curly hair is always wet when he shows up someplace. His eyes are this dark, mysterious green, which matches the cool ivy print on his button-down today. His smile is slow—like it really wants to be sure about things before committing—but once it’s there, it holds you close.

He’s nothing like Ryan, who was inarguably handsome in aPeople’s-Sexiest-Man-Alive kind of way. There’s nothing inarguablyanythingabout Noah, and I’m beginning to realize that’s the root of his appeal. For starters, he’s a fashion chameleon. He dresses one day like an indie rocker, one day like an Italian film producer, one day like a hipster on vacation. Even his physique—long and lean—is a body type that defies classification into a single sporty build—does he do triathlons to stay fit? A combination of basketball and yoga?

The man is an enigma—one minute reserved, the next, totally game to commit a felony in the spirit of doing someone a favor. You’d never know how successful he is from a glance or a casual conversation. But when he opens up, his spark is bright. He is full of complexities one wants to know more about.

That is, if one weren’t wagering their entire future on getting a book out of him.

“Let’s see the gardens,” he suggests, and I’m down.

We step outside, walking along a colonnaded loggia that opens to a garden so charming it borders on the miraculous. Neat stone paths divide it into quadrants. A fountain burbles at the center. The air is fragrant with herbs and small red flowers, swaying on the boughs of pomegranate trees. It’s transporting. Standing in this oasis, I feel as if we haven’t only left Manhattan, but have journeyed back in time to medieval Europe. I want to linger, to make the most of this respite from my everyday concerns.

“Is that wanderlust in your eyes?” Noah asks, surprising me. I hadn’t felt him looking at me, didn’t know he could read my thoughts.

“Guilty,” I say, adding lightly, “Wanderlust, tranquility-lust, go-back-in-time-and-make-different-choices-lust. Sort of a mixed-bag-lust.”

Stop sayinglust.

“If you know of any great destinations for people whose lives are imploding,” I say, wrapping up my rambling, “let me know.”

I’m not sure why Noah’s grinning at me.

“What?” I say as we stop at the garden’s center.

“As a matter of fact,” he says, “I do.”

“You do what?”

“Know of a great destination for you.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a thick, cream colored envelope. It’s addressed to Noa Callaway, but he hands it to me.

I slide the card out. It’s written in Italian. “What is this?”