“What did he say?”

“His cousin works as a bagnino on the public beach next to ours.”

“A what?”

“A lifeguard. He said that he saw a big mutt running on the shore a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh my god. Really? Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you. Conor, ask him for his phone number. I’m going to send him all the pictures of my legs his little heart desires—hey.” I tug at my wrist, but Conor is already dragging me away. “Hang on. We’re going in the wrong direction, the beach is—”

“We can’t just go to the beach and yell his name, Maya.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s miles long, and we have no idea where, or if, Tiny stopped.” He’s leading me toward something that looks like a shed, semi-hidden behind a few cypresses. His grip on my wrist slackens, and I…

I must be having an interesting day, because I let my hand slide down and close around his.

He must be having an interesting day, too. Because he allows it, and twines his fingers with mine.

My heart ricochets against my rib cage. “What’s the alternative? We still need to go to the beach.”

He opens the barn door. The inside is shaded, cool, scented with sawdust and oil.

“Is that a Vespa?” I gasp.

“Lambretta,” he corrects, easily mounting the motor scooter, which is painted the same blue as the sea. “Get on the back of the seat.”

“What?”

“There are tracks running parallel to the shore. This will be faster.”

I want to ask if he’s joking, but I know the answer. “This is very like that Audrey Hepburn movie whose name I forgot, but—”

“Roman Holiday.” He shakes his head and mutters something about damn young people.

“Okay, Grandpa. First of all, that movie was shot in the fifties or sixties, so don’t act like you stood in line to see its midnight screening on opening day. Secondly”—I step into him with my most intimidating scowl—“can you even drive it?”

Instead of replying, he looks around. “Put on that helmet.”

“This?” It’s a round, giant monstrosity, covered in the Italian flag. When I stick my head inside, it feels no less heavy than societal expectations. “Why do I have to put it on?”

He casts a level look in my direction. “Because if we end up in an accident, I’d rather die than survive you.”

My heart stops. Doesn’t restart for whole seconds. “That is…”

“What?”

“Just, a little blunt? And macabre. And very weird to say.”

“I am blunt. And very fucking weird.”

An odd, pleasant heat spreads through my chest. “Maybe you should try not to be?”

He frowns. “I’m going to ask again: Can you try to not be trouble? Just for a couple of hours?”

As it turns out, under optimal circumstances, I am, in fact, able to restrain myself. Holding on tight to Conor’s waist, breeze cooling my tacky skin, I can be quiet and focused. I have no clue whether Conor has the necessary license to drive the scooter, but he knows what he’s doing, and after the first couple of minutes of winding roads, I’m reasonably sure that Rue and Eli won’t have to read their vows on top of our closed caskets.