As soon as I open the door, animated voices drift from the kitchen.

My stomach twists into itself and shreds like confetti.

Don’t barf, I remind myself. Or you’re going to have to clean it up.

Alfie and Georgia are laughing, and there’s no way to my room except past their obnoxious mirth. I toe off my shoes, square my shoulders, and forbid myself from cowering with embarrassment.

“Hey,” I say, forcing my voice into a semblance of politeness.

“Hey, Maya.” Georgia, a vision in her riotous blond curls and satin lounge set, greets me with a loving grin. Clearly, she drank her own Kool-Aid and is convinced that her only sin was to fall in love and be loved back. Next to her is Alfie, with his ever-messy hair and charmingly crooked teeth.

He, at least, has the grace to look remorseful. “Hiya.”

They are not alone, but the third in their group is not, as I assumed, Rose. As close to the opposite as one could get, in fact.

Leaning against the counter is a tall, handsome man. He has dark, thick hair, A square jawline covered by the shadow of a beard. Strong brows that accentuate his light brown eyes.

He is familiar, but…why? I take in the tailored suit, the way his biceps fill rolled-up shirtsleeves, the droopy, hooded eyelids that make him look a mix of sleepy and irritated, the loafers crossed on the linoleum floor…

He’s smiling at me. A faint, barely-there, sharklike curve of his full lips. I feel as though I should be scared. But…of what?

“Maya,” a warm, deep, recently heard voice says.

That’s when it finally hits me.

Conor Harkness is in my kitchen.

Chapter 7

Present day

Taormina, Italy

Italians eat their meals in the middle of the night. At least, that’s what it feels like.

Early June in Sicily means that the sun won’t fully set until well past eight, but by the time Nyota and I stumble our way into the lantern-lit terrace garden, the sky is already dark. If it weren’t for the clear shine of the stars, I wouldn’t be able to make out where the air starts and the sea begins.

It doesn’t help that we’re the last two guests to show up for dinner.

And about five minutes late.

We march side by side down the cobblestone path, ready to make our shameful entrance. “How are they all so goddamn punctual?” Nyota mutters in my ear.

“How did we manage not to be?” The walk from her room took us forty-five seconds, tops. Running behind has to be some kind of superpower. And the problem with a thirteen-people wedding party—including her, me, and a sixteen-month-old toddler—is that it’s simply not crowded enough to hide our terrible manners.

Everyone’s already sitting at a long, rectangular table that has been set on a platform made of stone tiles, right in the middle of the lush garden. Strings of fairy lights crisscross above it like a canopy, casting a warm golden glow across the crisp white tablecloth and the earthy wildflower centerpieces. When the coastal breeze lifts, the candle flames nestled in little terra-cotta jars flicker, making the glassware sparkle. Red lanterns hang from the closest trees, cypress and olive, as if marking the border between the villa and its groves. Behind all of it, a solemn, moonlit silhouette oversees eastern Sicily.