“Safe? That’s not going to cut it. Because I could make it safe. I’m a responsible girl and I’ve had my fair share of hookups, so you don’t need to worry about that. If that’s what your peace of mind requires, you can stand outside my room to make sure that whoever I choose to sleep with doesn’t do anything untoward.”

His free hand closes around the edge of the counter, knuckles moon-white against the dark finishing of the wood.

“If that doesn’t sound good, then you’re going to have to do better, Conor. I want to have fun. You can ask me not to meet up with other guys. But what alternative will you offer?”

He doesn’t prevaricate, which is a relief. My respect for him would definitely take a hit if he pretended not to understand what I’m implying. “No,” he says. So quick, so firm, so definitive, I wonder if the answer is not definitive at all.

“That’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to be interested just because I am—”

“Maya.”

“—but I hope you’ll see where I’m coming from, too. And I hope you won’t waste more of my time.”

“You can’t do this.”

“No? Why not?”

He has no answer for me. What he does have is a muscle twitching in his jaw, and an Adam’s apple that bobs as he swallows. It must be a sign of my terrible temperament, that I cannot help smiling at the sight.

“Don’t worry about me.” I slide my fingers around his hand, dragging it away from my waist. His palm is warm, rough-skinned, and pliant in my grip. Instead of dropping it, I guide it into his lap and gently set it on his inner thigh.

The muscles in his quads twitch.

I smile, and before leaving I say: “Think about it, Conor. The offer stands.”

4 days before the wedding

Chapter 22

I wake up early—again.

Swim laps—again.

Have a granita breakfast—again.

All according to my new routine. The only different thing is the low-level hangover that I manage to shoo away only with ibuprofen. Over half of the party decides to go on a day-long excursion to Catania, but I’ve already made plans to go after the wedding, so I opt for staying at the villa.

“And we’re supposed to, what?” Nyota asks me when I inform her. “Relinquish our dysfunctional codependency? Be apart?”

I pat her back. “Don’t forget to write.”

I’m heading toward the beach, walking by a first-floor room. When I hear Conor’s voice, I halt, hoping to avoid meeting him. Even sober, I don’t regret what I told him last night. It did, however, end in something that felt a lot like another rejection, and I don’t want to deal with the fallback of it. I decide to exit the villa via the back door, but stop when I hear Tamryn’s distressed tone. “—don’t understand,” she’s saying. She sounds angry and tearful. “Their lawyers must be aware that their demands aren’t supported.”