“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 saying lust.

“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?”

“An invitation to the Italian launch party of Two Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows,” he says. “Apparently, a video of you making that speech at the New York launch was posted online. Did you know it went viral in Italy?”

“You’re kidding.” This is news to me.

“My publisher in Milan asked if you’d consider going and making a speech. It’s in May. They’re having the party at the Bacio hotel, which is . . .”

He meets my eyes, and we both say it at the same time: “In Positano.”

“Seriously?” I say. “That’s the hotel where Vows is set.”

“And,” he says, a smile hiding in the corners of his mouth, “if memory serves, the city where your mother was conceived?”

“I would say I wish I’d never told you that . . . except . . .” I look at him. “Are you offering me a trip to Italy?”

“Technically, my Italian publisher is offering it. I won’t be there, of course. But I’d be cheering you on from here.”

The way he says this, a hint of bittersweetness in his voice, makes me wonder. Any other author would accept this invitation themselves. Noah can’t. Does he ever wish things were different, that he could go to Italy himself and celebrate his work with his readers in the open?

I stare at the invitation, still trying to wrap my mind around it. What are the odds that an invitation to my dream destination would come—all expenses paid—at the moment I can’t say yes?

“This party is on May eighteenth,” I say. “Three days after your deadline for the book we have no concept for.”

Noah looks unfazed. “If I promise to get you the draft before you leave,” he says, “will you go?”