Page 9

8

We arrive at Hotel Giorgio, on the Amalfi Coast, approximately six minutes after the switch. Back molars clamped together, I brace myself for the sea of paparazzi. The motorcade pushes through them slowly, armed guards and Italian polizia standing at metal barriers. All this for someone going on vacation? Makes partial sense. Sofia’s a world leader, but she’s also the kind of celebrity who regularly appears in the tabloids. I remember that sequined blazer of hers, the sky-high heels, the PRIME MINISTER OR PARTY PRINCESS? headline. Candid pictures of her must fetch a steep price, which—right now—isn’t good. I’m the type of person who would eat a slice of tiramisu too enthusiastically (eyes lolling, moans emerging) and end up making international news.

An unflattering photo, though, is the least of my worries. I’m clutching Sofia’s ripped letter, fisted in my hand, unsure of what to do with it. Danger. Destroy this note. Through the tinted, bulletproof windows, I scan the crowd, dozens of people milling outside the hotel gates. Any one of them might be just posing as paparazzi, hired to shoot something other than a photo, something like—

“You breathing?” Flynn reminds me, his voice sudden and soft in my ear. A rush of electricity runs down my back at the sound of him. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it , but there it is—Flynn’s fingertip, smoothing my hair, tracing the curve of my ear. There’s his reassuring tone, steady and insistent that I’m okay. Back then. Moments ago. Time, bleeding together.

“You should teach yoga,” I rasp into the microphone, then wince. It’s slipped my mind for a second: I’m not supposed to respond in cases like this, where there’s no visible threat. Not with my “laryngitis.” And certainly not with my American accent.

Of course, Lars doesn’t hear Flynn in my ear, so he picks up the compliment, turning down the Summerlandian polka. “I took a course at an ashram once, ma’am,” he says, starkly serious, as the hotel gates click shut behind us. “I’m not as flexible as I’d like to be, ma’am.”

“Mmm,” I hum, the image of Lars in yoga pants now singed into my mind, burning right alongside Sofia’s note. I shove the letter scraps into my dress pocket, vowing to unpack her warning later. One thing at a time . Worry about surviving this before surviving that.

The Range Rover slows as Flynn wishes me a “good luck, doing great.” By that he means, I don’t trip on my way out of the vehicle. Despite my pounding pulse, I hold my head high and walk with a briskness in my step, like Flynn and I practiced yesterday, saying a silent thank-you to whoever chose my flat sandals. The pavement’s uneven, and everyone from the motorcade is strolling up, flanking me. It’s already more attention than I’ve ever received in my life.

First impression? Hate it.

Hate the chatter and the flashing lights and the police on walkie-talkies, speaking in a language I barely understand. My relationship with Italian is almost entirely confined to late-night food-blog scrolling, and one Frommer’s guidebook that’s gathering dust in my parents’ garage. I know the words for sixteen different types of pasta, but that’s not going to help me in an emergency, is it?

Unless it’s a pasta-based emergency.

My guess is that, worldwide, there are very few of those.

Naturally, I don’t check in like a normal person. There is no waiting in line before a front desk, no presenting my debit card and a form of ID. Half of the staff greets me at the front of the hotel, hands clasped at their waists, with polite smiles and crisp white uniforms. Their calm demeanors contrast with the chaos outside the gates. Some of them look genuinely excited to meet me, eager faces waiting for a nod—or any type of recognition, really.

But Flynn’s in my ear. “Don’t shake any hands,” he reminds me, all business, a change from how easygoing he is when we’re alone. I realize, in those four brief words, that there are two Flynns: behind-closed-doors Flynn, and an out-and-about agent of the CIA. Right now, this feels formulaic. How he’s handling me is simple, ritualistic. “Don’t get too close to anyone.”

The rest of his sentence goes unsaid. Don’t get too close to anyone who could stab you.

No handshakes, then! Instead, I wave. Does it look as if I’m saying heeeeeey to a friend across a crowded restaurant? Actually, no! I nail the gesture. Palm at my back, Lars saves me from any further interaction with maybe–secret assassins, escorting me in the direction of the main entrance. We sail past the German shepherds in their police vests, their noses sniffing around the perimeter, as I’m doing everything I can to channel Sofia’s poise, her presence, the way she’d effortlessly glide into the hotel, just like she glides into trade negotiations.

She would not stop to pet the police dogs. I do not stop to pet the police dogs.

“You want to pet those police dogs, don’t you?” Flynn says, a chuckle in his throat.

Ignoring him, I keep walking.

In case it needed to be said, this is an incredibly nice hotel: a terra-cotta-colored mansion that rises up from the water, tiered like a wedding cake. Freshly painted white balconies overlook a sapphire-blue sea. A concrete statue of a mermaid winks at me from behind bundles of ferns. Everything is purposefully overgrown—controlled chaos in plant form. It’s lush and brilliantly green, shrubbery overflowing from clay pots. A thin skim of algae glitters on top of a pond that looks deep enough to swim in, next to a line of brand-new Vespas, waiting for guests to climb aboard.

Climb aboard and run you over , my inner voice warns.

I tell it, Oh, stop it with the Vespa thing, will you?

“Signora Prime Minister! Signora!” In the tiled entryway, a man in his seventies rushes toward us. White puffs of hair foam out of his head like sea froth. “Welcome, welcome, welcome to Hotel Giorgio! I am Giorgio. My father was Giorgio. My grandfather, he was Giorgio. They are dead. But we are so honored for you to stay at our resort. This hotel, it’s all about family. You’re here, you are now family. My grandfather, he started this resort after the war, as a place to relax, for everyone to relax, so whatever you need to relax, I will help you relax.”

Instantly, I love him. He’s so insistent, like he’s about to shove cucumber slices over my eyeballs. In another life, if I came to this resort on an actual vacation, I’m sure I would want to lounge around in a plush white bathrobe, eat canapés, and backstroke in the pool. Just not now. When Giorgio offers me his warmest smile, clasping a hand over his heart, all I can think is, Oh god, I hope nothing happens to me in this man’s hotel. It would kill him .

“The prime minister is conserving her voice,” Lars tells Giorgio as the whole entourage moves briskly forward. “Laryngitis.”

Desperate to add something, I tap the base of my throat for emphasis, and wince (the colored contacts are irritating my eyeballs).

“Oh, signora.” Before the security team can stop him, Giorgio moves his hand to rest on my shoulder. I don’t even flinch—Giorgio is about as scary as a starfish—but I swear I hear a hiss of breath from Flynn, echoing through the earpiece. “Signora, I know exactly how you feel. Last summer, a bee—I was gardening, and a bee flew right into my mouth, right down my throat. Stung me. Swelled up. My whole throat, poof!” He mimes this, as if his jugular flat-out exploded. “Couldn’t speak for three weeks. My mama, she will be ninety- six this month, she makes me tea with honey, but I couldn’t even look at the honey! Reminded me too much of the bee!”

My face is sympathetic, with a hint of horror. Both reactions come naturally.

“May I just say, anything you like, Signora Prime Minister, I bring it to you. Anything! You want the paper? I give. You want limoncello? Straightaway.” He claps his hands in front of my face to demonstrate the quickness of his future action.

“Will you please show the prime minister to her room?” Lars says, urging us continually along.

“Yes!” Giorgio bleats. “Yes! It would be my great privilege.” He pats his breast pockets—once, twice. “I… Mi scusi , Signora Prime Minister, un minuto .”

While Giorgio fumbles to find the misplaced key, my gaze slides anxiously around the lobby: white marble desks, blue-tiled floors, and a flowing fountain in the middle. It spurts water from— what is that? Discreetly, in a Sofia-like way, I lean forward to confirm my suspicions. The fountain piece is a stone man-angel, having an extended pee.

“Found it!” Giorgio says a fraction of a second later, blue-tasseled key emerging. It dangles from his trembling hand as he leads me—plus Lars and five other black-suited security officers—down the first hall and into a cramped elevator, rocketing us up to the top floor.

“ Magnifico ,” Giorgio says on the landing. “This, Signora Prime Minister, will be where you stay. Anything you need. More soap? We have goats. We have goats that make the soap, just down the road.” He’s become so nervous, so fumbling, that he almost takes away my nerves. “Not to suggest that you need more soap. You look very clean. Very clean.”

When Giorgio throws open the doors to room 6C like ta-da , Lars stalks in first, prepared to side-tackle anyone waiting to strangle me. I stand back as he reinspects the flowers on the circular foyer table: a bouquet of white lilies and summer greenery. He’s checking them for…what? Explosives?

Best not to think about it too much.

The rest of my security team congregates in the hallway, looking busy and important.

“You like the suite?” Giorgio asks me, so hopeful that it cracks my heart. I recognize parts of myself in him—a passion for his trade, a business he’s proud of. I nod three times, just to reassure him. “Oh, good. Good. When they say you were staying here, that you chose my hotel this year, I—” He claps his chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous in my life. This is going to be some vacation, no? Well, again, if there’s anything you need…”

He backs out with a bow as Lars arranges my suitcases by the bed—and makes his exit, too. The front door clicks shut, and then I’m alone, with luggage I’ve never seen in my life, in a hotel room that feels like a movie set. Half the surfaces are glittering, mirrored, or brilliantly white. Everything about this suite is built for relaxation. The leather armchairs look like they’d support your body perfectly. High-backed dining chairs surround a long table, fit for luxurious dinners. A plush beige rug, delicately age-worn, leads to the world’s most sumptuous bathroom: marble, huge shower, tile cool under my toes. Even the air is thick with lavender, and I…don’t deserve any of this. Not a drop of this. None of this should be for me.

How long until Flynn arrives?

I’ll just…unpack. Kill time.

Unzipping the first suitcase, I bristle; I cannot tell you how strange it is to open a bag, your bag, and find someone else’s stuff. Someone else’s books, summer scarves, and high heels. My fingers run over the linen and light cashmere, trousers in creams and earth tones, a bottle of fruity yet stately perfume. I give myself a spritz, rubbing the scent on my wrists, which makes the cover-up run in thin beige streaks.

“ Crap, ” I say out loud.

“What is it?” comes Flynn’s immediate response, a tad less breezy than before.

“Nothing, I’m…” I tiptoe over to the bathroom, blotting the makeup with a towelette. It stains in a peachy burst. “I’m alone in the suite. Just spilled something, that’s all. Have you checked in yet?”

“Just did,” he says, half under his breath, like he’s disguising the fact that we’re speaking. “Turns out, there’s a big commotion because a prime minister has also just checked in.”

“Another one?” I say, going with the bit. Familiarity chafes at me. “What are the odds?”

Flynn gives a slight chuckle. “I’ll be up in three.”

When the knock comes, though, I glance out the front-door peephole—and Flynn isn’t there. Only Lars, a series of security officers, and two Italian policemen line the hall.

“It’s me,” Flynn says through the earpiece. “Go ahead and answer it.”

“Yeah, but where are you?”

He knocks again, and this time I realize it’s coming from a door inside my room, the one I thought led to a rather grandiose closet. A painted-white lock blends seamlessly into the wood; I unlatch it, swinging open the door to find Flynn, a sheen of sweat glistening near his temples, almost as if he’s been out surfing and he’s just stepped off the beach. His hair is gently tousled, his collar limp from the humidity, and it shouldn’t strike me every time I see him: how I wish that my handler wasn’t so unexpectedly good-looking.

Behind him is a brightly lit corridor leading to a second elevator. “Private entrance,” he explains, strolling inside my room. A worn leather suitcase dangles from one of his hands. “Also, an emergency exit. The hotel had it built for VIP guests, so they’d have exclusive access to the wine cellar and some of the other amenities. CIA came in yesterday and changed the keypad and the code, and there’s additional security downstairs on this end.”

Carefully, he sets the suitcase next to the others.

I point to it. “That mine, too? How much luggage does a person need for a few days?”

“Oh, we…” Flynn pauses, a look of uncertainty crossing his face. It involves a dent in his brow, a tic of his jaw. Two very un-Flynn-like motions. “Gail didn’t tell you, did she?”

A flicker of panic settles in my gut. “Tell me what?”

He runs a smooth hand through his hair, tousling it further. “Shit.”

“What?”

“You really don’t know?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Okay, uh…” Flynn clicks his tongue. “I didn’t know that you didn’t know, but…here’s the deal. I’m supposed to be staying with you.”

Panic sparks down my neck as I clock his meaning. “Staying with me, like…”

“In your suite. On the couch.”

“Ha! No way. We don’t—” I gesture between us with a floppy hand, unsure how to finish that sentence. We don’t know each other anymore ? “We don’t need that.”

Flynn’s hands migrate to his hips as he scrunches up his mouth. “Gail was supposed to go over the arrangement on the flight over. She distinctly said that she told you.”

“Well, she did not. She started training me, gave me an unnecessarily long lecture on Northern European agriculture, then played some farming game on her phone while I learned the Summerlandian national anthem. This suite is too…” I glance around, a little frantic. “It’s too…”

“Too what?” Flynn prompts, eyelashes like crescent moons on his face.

Romantic , I think, teeth gritting around the word. It couldn’t be any more romantic if there was a saxophonist spread out on the bed playing “I Will Always Love You,” if there were rose petals in the bathtub and champagne in the— Okay, there actually is champagne, chilling in an ice bucket near the bed. “It’s too small for both of us,” I finish nonsensically. This suite is twice the size of my living space back in Maine, with way fewer clipped coupons and no ancient microwave (or Calvin) in sight.

When Flynn speaks again, his voice brushes against my skin and the inside of my ear simultaneously. I rip out the earbud as he tries for reason. “I’m sorry, the agency thought it’d be safer to condense roles, so I’m your handler and your in-room bodyguard. There’s no way I can let you sleep alone.” He reconsiders his phrasing with a small, awkward tilt of his head and a cough into his fist. “Alone in your suite, I mean. Not…”

“ Obviously not that,” I say, my eyes jolting over to the full-size bed before I can tell myself Danger, danger, don’t go there. Heat rushes to my face until I’m approaching the terra-cotta color of the hotel. It’s just…hard to wrap my mind around. Flynn, in my suite. Flynn in my suite when I’m falling asleep at night. When I’m wearing (someone else’s) pajamas. When I’m shuffling out of bed in the morning and my hair’s a crown of tangled knots. This arrangement makes sense logically. As the double, I have a body. He is bodyguarding. Therefore, he must be close to my body. But the couch is maybe six feet from the bed, and the thought of Flynn, with his biceps and his back muscles, lounging next to me at night is—

Know what? It’s fine. It’s totally fine.

Once again, I have bigger things to worry about. Assassins masquerading as paparazzi. Claiming the five million dollars, paying back my family and friends, and honoring my grandmother’s love for her home country. How I’m going to maintain my role perfectly, do a leader like Sofia justice, and not out myself as the double. Flynn sleeping two yards from my face? No biggie.

“Actually, I understand,” I tell him with a half-forced shrug. “Go ahead. Stay.”

His blue eyes sweep across my face, trying to pick up a lie.

“We’re all good,” I tell him.

“Good,” he parrots back.

“Good,” I say again, wishing I hadn’t. We’re going to need a whole new set of rules.