“It’s actually a tip I discovered in a ‘live like a local’ blog. Here, I’ll show you.” She pulled out her phone and started scrolling.

“Stop,” he said, both hands in the air. “There will be no more reviewing of the blogs.” She scowled but he didn’t seem to notice. “You can have the sweater if you must, but you won’t need an umbrella for the next few hours. Trust me.”

Mira felt tempted to live-tweet how she was being mansplained about the weather, but she didn’t want to lose more time from her day of exploring. She also didn’t want to agree with him, which made the whole thing a bit conflicting.

“Carrying an umbrella is not a big deal,” she finally said. “And why can’t men just say cardigan? It’s not that hard.”

Jake got up off the floor. “Mira, would you say that I know a few things about life?”

“I don’t really know you, but no, I wouldn’t say that.”

“What I know,” he continued, “is that ten minutes into holding that umbrella, you’ll start whining about how annoying it is, and then you’ll ask me to hold it for you.”

“Wow. ‘Theoretical me’ sounds horrible.”

If this was genuinely Jake’s assumption of how Mira would act, it gave her an idea of the high-maintenance women in his orbit.

“I’m just saving you from your worst self. You’re welcome.”

Mira scanned the room for something to throw at him, but everything seemed too gross to even touch. She glanced at her watch and realized this debate was wasting precious minutes. “You’re really passionate about this, aren’t you?”

“I am. Keep the sweater, lose the umbrella.”

“Fine.” She tossed the umbrella back into the carry-on. “But if it rains, you owe me a hundred euros for emotional damages.” It wasn’t much, but it would help to ease her current financial burden.

“Deal.”

She made her way to the door. “Let’s go. I’ve got things to see and no time to waste.”

“Gimme ten,” he said, reaching for his carry-on. “I need a shower.”

Mira bristled at the sudden adjustment to her schedule. “You need to use my shower too?”

He opened the bag and pulled out some clothes. “If you didn’t want me to shower, you shouldn’t have said I smelled like vodka sweat.”

He whistled on his way to the bathroom and slid the panel closed.

Mira spent the next few minutes texting Sophie every detail from her unexpected morning.

I’ll probably have to sell some furniture to make back the money.

She sighed before concluding her harrowing account.

It’s fine, though. I’ve heard sleeping on the floor is good for your back.

It didn’t take long for Sophie to respond.

When you’re back, I’m coming over with wine. Will leave the baby with Tom. Or a random neighbor.

Mira laughed as Sophie continued typing.

And you should still email Satan—I mean Shirley—and explain the sitch. Who knows, she might throw you a bone.