by Holly Rayner
The third says:
“Since you’re clearly avoiding my calls and texts, I feel I should remind you that I hold all the cards here. I’ve been your employer for three years, Phoebe, and I’m going to tell anyone who even considers hiring you that you’re absentminded, prone to making mistakes, unintelligent, lazy and—”
Bling! Bling! Two more messages flood in, and I know instinctively that they’re both from Derek. I know from experience that once his mood turns sour, he has to take it out on someone. I’m his favorite scapegoat.
“Not anymore, buddy,” I huff under my breath as I reach for my purse and stuff my phone inside.
I will never again have to listen to Derek dress me down when I bring him his skinny vanilla latte two minutes late.
I will no longer have to sit there and take it as he accuses me of being lazy, poor at my job, or incapable.
I’m not lazy, and I’m more than capable of working hard. He just refused to see that.
I shoulder my purse and lift my chin.
Though it was not fun to read his text messages, they did prove one thing: Derek doesn’t know that I filtered money from his business account.
Not yet, anyway.
I follow the other passengers down the aisle to get off the plane, pausing once to yank my red rolling suitcase from the overhead compartment.
Once out in the airport, I am instantly overwhelmed by the sudden buzz of activity around me. I feel weak with hunger and dehydration, and my neck is stiff and sore. There are so many things I need to do—including figuring out a way to transfer the money in my account to Nicole—but I can’t think clearly.
First things first, I tell myself as I navigate my way toward the terminal exit, I have to get out of this airport and find a hotel. I’ll take a shower, brush my teeth, and maybe take a quick nap. And after that—I’ll get dressed and take a walk. I really, really need some fresh air. I’ve been cooped up in airports and stuffy planes for far too long.
Once I’ve had some fresh air, maybe I’ll finally be able to think clearly. Maybe I’ll be able to figure out what I can do next.
Three hours later, I’ve checked into a modest motel, napped, and I’m all cleaned up and ready to explore the city.
Spring is in the air, and the sun is shining. Even though I’m beyond apprehensive about the challenges that lie ahead of me, I manage to put my fears aside and enjoy the feel of the sun on my face as I exit the hotel room and wander down the narrow, cobblestoned street.
On either side of the street tall brick buildings in terra-cotta and bright white, accented with purple, blue and red trim, cause me to look anywhere but the ground in front of me. I gaze at the intricate architecture that evokes times gone by. And I even smile as I see little signs of spring—a few daffodils, buds on trees, and even tall tulips that stand in rings around each streetlight.
I’m only vaguely aware of the people that pass by me, carried by a sea of words I cannot understand. Violin music floats down from an open apartment window. I see two children riding bicycles that remind me of ones that Nicole and I rode as kids.
The children are laughing, and calling out to one another, and I feel a burst of hope spring up in my heart.
Maybe I could make it here. Maybe I could fit in—one day. Maybe I could live here, in this beautiful, bright, old-fashioned city.
Another cluster of locals passes by and this time I catch sight of a boy, about Andy’s age.
My heart constricts.
I think of Andy’s smile. I think of the way his arms feel when they’re wrapped around me, delivering one of the hugs that I live for.
How will I survive, without seeing the look of joy and excitement in his sparkling eyes when he tells me about the highlights of his day?
Somehow, I’m going to have to get the hundred thousand from my account to Nicole’s.
But how?
I’m going to have to be clever about it.
I did go to college, for about two years, but money laundering was definitely not part of my coursework. I’m totally out of my league here.
If I go through with my plan and transfer the money from my account to Nicole’s, that could put Nicole at risk. I’m okay with putting myself at risk, but Nicole? That’s a whole other story. She’s Andy’s primary caregiver. Andy needs his mother.
Living without a mother is painful. I know that from experience, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
There’s no way I can put Nicole into jeopardy. Then how am I going to get the money into her account? How can I make this work?
If I do make it work, I’m going to have to stay out of the States for a long, long time. Possibly forever.
The aching sensation in my heart slows my feet. I come to a stop in front of a chocolate shop. I can’t think about Andy and Nicole. My fearful worrying is not helping my situation. I need to clear my mind.
Maybe chocolate will help.
I take a full twenty minutes to browse through the shop, and eventually I pick out three beautiful chocolates. I savor the rich milk chocolate as I continue on my way.
A desire to see more of the city, along with my growing hunger, prods me onward. I follow the scent of freshly baked bread around a street corner and then over a bridge. The delicious smell draws me down a quiet alley. There are fewer people here. The scent of the baked goods grows stronger, and finally I round a sharp bend in the alley and spot a couple sitting down at a small table for two. There are two plates of fresh pastry between them.
I inhale the smell of confectioner’s sugar, spices, and flaky crust.
My mouth begins to water. There’s a sign, propped up next to the cafe door, but I can’t read any of the writing.
I walk past the sign and the couple and take a seat in one of the small tables that’s farthest from the cafe door. It’s nearing five, and though the seating area is empty besides the one couple, I’m sure the cafe will grow busier as the evening progresses. I want to be out of the way, and I think this table will be perfect. It’s at the very edge of the roped-off area of cafe seating, and instead of facing the street, the single chair at the table faces a green area adjacent to the cafe, complete with marble statues and flowering bushes.
I’ve been walking for at least a few miles now, and it feels good to find a seat in one of the wicker chairs and remove my purse from my shoulder. A little laminated menu lies between a vase of flowers and napkin holder on the circular tabletop. I pick up the menu with a vague hope that I’ll recognize a word or two on it.
Sukerbolle
Banketstaaf
Bossche Bollen
Nope. I have no idea what any of these words mean.
I know I could use my phone to translate them, but if I turn my phone on, I’m sure I will be inundated with messages from Derek.
That’s the last thing I want right now.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle!”
I turn to look over my shoulder and spot a waiter bustling toward me.
“Oh, good!” I say. “You speak English. That’s perfect. I was just looking at the menu, and I can’t—”
“Mademoiselle,” he says, cutting me off. “Do you have a reservation?”
“A reservation? No, I’m just—”
“Up! Up!” he demands, waving his arm. “We do not accept walk-ins. You must go.”
“Excuse me?” I say, looking around at the dozen empty tables. “Are you really that busy? I won’t be long, I promise. I’ve had an extremely long day, and I’d just love to sit for a minute.”
“Up! Up!” he repeats, flapping his arms. “You do not belong here! We are a high-class establishment, and we serve private guests only. Not for tourists.”
His English is heavily accented, but despite the added lilt to each word, I can clearly tell that he thinks I’m not worthy of sitting at this table.
I’ve had about enough of that tone from Derek over the years.
I’m done with feeling unworthy. I didn’t fly across the globe only to be talked
down to by another man with slicked-back hair and an attitude like he’s king of the world.
“I don’t belong here?” I say, repeating his words. “I’m a paying customer! Are you really telling me that every table is booked for the next half an hour?”
“No,” he admits. “We have space. It is early. But it is not space for you,” he sneers, looking down his nose at me. “Now, go.” He points to the street.
Irked, but knowing instinctively that I cannot win, I stoop down to gather my bag.
As I straighten up once again, I catch sight of a man just behind the waiter. He’s very handsome, tall and lean, with broad shoulders and just the right amount of muscle. He has light brown hair that sticks up straight and a bit haphazardly, and blue eyes that twinkle with kindness as he says, “Beg your pardon?”
The waiter whips around. “Luca!” he gasps, more to himself than anything. Suddenly, his face changes, and he is the model of humility.
“Sir! I didn’t see you there!” he says, in a completely different tone than what he was using to address me. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I couldn’t help but overhear that you were asking this young woman to leave.”
“Yes, sir. Of course. As you know, we cater exclusively to our private members, like yourself.”
“Of course,” the stranger says. “And you also serve my guests. Could you please bring a second chair over, so that I can join my friend?”
“Your… friend?” The waiter’s tone is now skeptical. He turns to me. “This is your friend?”
Just behind the waiter, the tall, handsome man—Luca, by the sounds of it—looks at me as well and delivers a wink.
I feel a flutter in my heart, and a smile threatens to play across my lips.
I hold it back and fix my gaze on the waiter. “Yes, I am!” I say as I set my bag down once again at my feet. “I’m here with… with Luca.” I turn to the handsome stranger, who is smiling now, and issue a wave. “I’m so sorry that I’m late, Luca,” I say. “I hope you weren’t waiting for long.”
“Not long at all,” Luca says. “I just took an extra walk around the block because I didn’t see you here when I first arrived.”
“It’s a beautiful day for walking,” I say, feeling stunned at the turn of events.
The waiter looks stunned, too, as Luca grabs a chair from a nearby table and places it next to mine.
Luca claps the waiter on the back. “On second thought, don’t worry about the chair. I’ve got it. But we will take a bottle of your best wine.”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter says. “Let me go get that right away.” He then turns to me and gives a subtle bow. “I’m sorry, ma’am, for my earlier behavior. I thought—”
I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, grinning more broadly now.
As the waiter bustles away, Luca chuckles, and I laugh softly, too.
“Thank you,” I say. “That guy was about to lift me up by my tourist elbow and physically remove me from the premises.”
“I could tell,” Luca says.
He eyes me. I meet his gaze and am struck by the depth of his smoky blue eyes.
Once in a while, I meet a person who I feel like I already know. It’s a strange sensation that hits me deep in my core. This man, though I’ve never met him before in my life, feels strangely familiar.
I pull my gaze away and reach for the menu. “I had no idea this place was just for private members,” I say. “I couldn’t read the signs, and to be honest, I think my brain is a bit foggy from traveling. So thank you again. You rescued me.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, with a wave of his hand. “I think it’s a bit ridiculous that these places are so exclusive, but the food is so good that I put up with the bit of snobbery.”
I nod. “Prioritizing good food… I completely get that.”
He laughs. “A woman after my own heart,” he says.
I lift the menu. “The problem is, none of the items on this menu look familiar to me. I’ll have no idea what I am ordering.”
“I can help you with that,” he says.
He scoots his chair closer to mine, and I feel butterflies stir in my stomach. I sense the heat of his body as he reaches toward the menu I’m holding and gently lifts it, turns it around, and then places it back in my hands.
“There we go,” he says. “The other side was breakfast items. Here we have appetizers, dinner, and desserts.”
His fingers brush mine as he releases the menu. I feel myself blush as I glance over at him. He’s only a foot away from me now, and his closeness is giving me a head rush. His profile is gorgeous—chiseled jaw, handsome chin, kissable lips, a fine nose, and those eyes that hold so much life and kindness.
I look away quickly before he can catch me staring. As I look back to the menu, I see that at last my hand has stopped trembling. I’m actually relaxing.
This attractive stranger has completely captivated me—to the point that my own troubles are beginning to fade.
It feels wonderful.
In fact, I think Luca may be just the distraction I need.
Chapter 3
Phoebe
I pretend to look over the side of the menu that Luca has presented to me, but really, I’m trying to resist the temptation to glance at him again and take in more of his handsome profile.
I think my ruse works, because he says, “I can translate for you, if you like. I know that the names of our local dishes must confuse you.”
I nod. “Thank you,” I say.
“Order whatever you like,” he says. “It’s my treat. I’m Luca, by the way.”
I look up at him and our eyes meet. “Phoebe,” I manage.
“It’s nice to meet you, Phoebe,” he says, his voice soft and intimate.
From the tone of his voice, you’d think the two of us had known each other for years. I feel excited, nervous, and comforted all at the same time. What is it about this man?
I point to an item at the bottom of the menu. “This looks like it has the word ‘chocolate’ in it. Is it a dessert item?”
He leans closer to read the item I’m pointing too. “Ah… that’s a chocolate pastry, similar to a croissant. The filling is very rich—a mixture of chocolate, cream, and hazelnuts.”
“Oh… that does sound good,” I say. “How about this one?” I point to another item.
Luca patiently describes three more desserts to me, and by the time the waiter arrives with a bottle of white wine, I’ve decided on the one that I want.
I giggle after trying to pronounce the dessert bread that I’ve chosen, Fryske Sukerbole, and Luca has to repeat my choice to the waiter so that he can understand. Luca orders a crepe for himself and two glasses of ice water as well.
After the waiter departs, Luca pours two glasses of white wine and hands me one. “Good choice,” he says. “You’re not going to be disappointed.”
I grin. “As long as it’s sweet, I think I’ll be happy. I have a bit of a sweet tooth—especially when I’m stressed.” I glance at my hand, which is curled around the stem of my wine glass. It’s still tremble-free. Being around Luca is certainly helping me to forget my troubles. This wine may help, as well.
I lift the glass and take a sip. The flavor is smooth, fruity and refreshing. It may be the best wine I’ve ever tasted.
“I hope you’re not stressed now,” Luca says. “It’s too beautiful of an evening for that.” He leans back in his chair, lifts his own glass, and sips as he examines me.
I feel his eyes roam over my features and then subtly take in my body.
Though he’s just called the evening beautiful, I feel like his compliment was also addressed to me. I adjust the straps of my tank top, happy I decided to wear one of my nicer black tops and a colorful skirt. For some reason that I can’t quite put into words, I want to impress this man. I want to please him.
I focus on my wineglass as I savor the feel of his eyes on me.
“I’m… well… I think I’m
relaxing a bit,” I say. “It helps to be out in the fresh air…” With you, I want to add. I don’t. I leave it unspoken, but I sense that Luca picks up what I’m trying to convey. I like his presence, here at my table. I’m glad for this unexpected visit. I thought I needed some time alone to clear my head, but I’m surprised to realize what a welcome gift his company is.
I don’t know him, but I can tell how friendly he is.
I like that.
He sips his wine and remains quiet. His silence makes me feel comfortable. He’s giving me the space I need to open up.
“It’s been a difficult few days,” I admit.
“Stressful,” Luca says. “I’ve been there. I understand.”
I nod. “Yes. Extremely stressful.” I sigh.
At that moment, the waiter returns with two plates. He sets them between us, and then places tall glasses of ice water on the table as well.
As the waiter departs, Luca’s eyes meet mine again. “Is it something you want to talk about?”
I reach for my fork. I know that I can’t actually reveal my predicament, but I feel grateful that he asked.
“I… I think I may have made a slight mistake,” I say. That’s the understatement of the century, I think as I nip my fork into the bread. Could one hundred thousand dollars really be referred to as slight? “I’m not sure. It all happened really fast, and I’m still trying to process everything.”
Luca nods and doesn’t press me for details, which makes me feel relieved.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” he says. “I know a thing or two about that.” He slices into his dessert as well and takes a bite.
We both eat for a few minutes. I can see why this small cafe is so popular among Westegaard’s wealthy set. The baked good before me is absolutely divine—sweet, but not too sweet. Moist, dense and rich, it goes perfectly with the wine.
Luca’s words ring in my mind. He seemed sincere when he said them. He’s made mistakes in the past. What kind of mistakes? What is it, in his past, that he regrets?
He didn’t press me for details, so I know I can’t press him. Just as I don’t want to reveal my mistakes, he clearly doesn’t want to reveal his. I have to respect his privacy.