3. Paolo

CHAPTER 3

PAOLO

I got to my hotel late last night and slept most of the day away today. Even though I had had this fantasy that the second I landed, I’d go out and hunt Chloe down, sleeping was actually a really good idea.

Really, the second I checked in and lay down on the bed, it was game over. I woke up three hours later, and by the time I’d done that, I was hungry. So I got room service, and by then it was too late to be going out and chatting anyone up.

But it was a good move, because now it’s early evening and I feel well rested and ready to go for my journey through New York.

I came here once, years ago, as a teenager, and we did all the usual tourist stuff like the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. It was pretty exciting back then, but I don’t think I would want to live in a cramped apartment to be serenaded by the traffic all the time.

Chloe’s bar is in some hidden corner of the city, somewhere I’ve never heard of, let alone ever been. It’s on one of the later stops of one of the more obscure subway lines and then down an alley. The whole time I’m on the subway, I stare into my phone, trying not to play with my baseball cap. The more I pull it down over my eyes, the more suspicious I probably look.

Not that I really need to be worried anyway, I think. Bellamare isn’t exactly the biggest, most well-known country, and I doubt my shenanigans have crossed the Atlantic. Still, I don’t want to be recognized and I don’t want to talk to anyone.

And I don’t know where I’m going. So I stare at my map, watching as my blue dot creeps along the screen towards my destination.

I only get lost finding my way from the station through the tiny streets like four times.

When I finally get there, I stand outside for a moment, staring up at it. It’s an unassuming place, the sign peeling, the windows darkened so I can’t see inside. The menu stuck to the wall is faded, but the cocktails look good.

Taking a breath, I steady myself and push open the door.

It’s busy inside so I guess enough people must know about it. It’s definitely one of those dives where you only go if you know it exists, and you only know it exists if you’re a local. Good if you want the culture, I suppose, the real experience, living in places like this. On any other day, that’s what I’d be thinking about.

But today, it’s seven p.m. and I want a drink. And I want to go home.

I saunter over to the bar. Sure enough, the information Schultz gave me was good. There at the bar is a young woman, her light brown hair tied back, her green eyes shining. She’s chatting to a customer while she puts glasses away, smiling and laughing at whatever he’s saying.

An irrational rush of jealousy surges through me. How dare this other man flirt with the woman I’m about to go flirt with? How can she be thinking of anyone else when she’s mine? But she doesn’t know that yet.

I squash down that feeling of possessiveness, shaking my head at myself. I have to play this cool.

I sidle up to the bar, take a seat, and grin at her she hands me a drinks menu. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, smiling. Her smile is even prettier in reality than any of the photos I saw.

Yes, this plan is looking better by the second.

I watch as she goes back to work, not saying anything. I want to see her in action before I start speaking. You’ve got to be careful with people when they’re at work. Most women don’t exactly want random men to be flirting with them when they’re on shift. I’m going to have to play my cards right if I want her to speak to me for more than two seconds.

And she is very pleasant to look at. She’s in her work shirt, so clearly she isn’t trying to look her best right now, but I can still tell she has a great body under there. Her breasts swell under her top, and I get a tantalizing glimpse of her collarbone. It wouldn’t really matter what she looked like, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t help that she’s hot.

“So, what can I get you?” she says, sliding back over to me, leaning on the bar to show me the constellation of freckles scattered across her face.

I purse my lips, not wanting to smile too broadly. “I can’t decide. Give me your favorite.”

“Okay,” she grins, narrowing her eyes like I’ve given her a challenge. I don’t take my eyes off her for a second as she grabs the cocktail shaker, pours from a few different bottles into it, and shakes. Her fingers wrap around the metal and I barely blink, staring at her long, elegant fingers, her neatly manicured nails.

God, she’s perfect.

She slides a glass over to me, sticking an umbrella in it as she does. “House special. The Jet Pilot,” she winks. “We added it to the menu because one of the guys who works here is obsessed with planes. Enjoy.”

With another grin, she drifts back off to work, and I take a sip of the drink. Immediately, I get hit with the warm taste of rum, and an aftershock of absinthe, and I smile. I’m not sure what it says about her that this was her choice of drink to give me, but clearly she thinks I can handle it.

Next time, Chloe passes back by me, I grin at her to catch her attention. “Everything good?” she asks.

I smile. “It’s all perfect with me. How about with you?”

She shrugs. “Oh, just another day at work.”

“I feel you,” I say, despite the fact that I’ve never really felt that in my life. The closest I’ve got to a tedious day at work has been charity balls, and even then I’m allowed to drink the champagne. “When do you get off your shift?”

I’m hoping I’ve pitched it so it sounds more like genuine concern for her welfare than trying to chat her up to go out afterwards. To my relief, it looks like I got it just right because she shrugs again. “Not much longer now. I was on the day shift today. Honestly, I’m just grateful I’ve got a job at all.”

I force a chuckle at that. We live in such different worlds. “A nightmare, huh?”

She laughs and the sound is like pure honey to me, sweet and smooth and something I feel like I could drown in. I want to make her do it again, a hundred times. “What do you do for work?” she asks.

Aha. I’ve got her now. I don’t bother to hide my smile. “I’m in business,” I say, hoping that if I keep the subject broad enough she won’t ask me any more questions about it. I have got a backstory, but it’s not detailed enough to hold up under any heavy scrutiny.

“Business, huh?” she repeats. “What do you actually do all day, then? Having an office job has always sounded really boring to me.”

“I muddle through,” I say, and notice how my turn of phrase makes her smile at me. “There’s a lot of spreadsheets.”

“That makes me wish I paid more attention to math at school,” she giggles. Then she leans forward on the bar and fixes me with a look that searches deep into my soul. “If you don’t mind me asking, I notice you’ve got a bit of an accent there. Where are you from?”

“Bellamare,” I say confidently, then realize that I have to pretend that she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I shrug bashfully, looking away from her eyes even though I don’t want to. I don’t want to overdo this. “You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s a tiny island near Italy. Most people don’t know where it is.”

Her mouth drops open and I make another quip to fill the silence. “If it helps, my geography of the US is terrible too.”

“No, no. Sorry,” she says, almost stammering out the words. “It’s not that at all. It’s just… well, you’ll never believe this, but my dad came from Bellamare.”

“Really?” I say raising both eyebrows. I’ve been practicing this reaction in the mirror for the last few days, desperately trying to figure out what a realistic expression would be for realizing that you have a connection with a complete stranger to your home country.

My expression needs to convey that it’s more than an interesting fact because no one’s ever heard of Bellamare, but I can’t go making a pantomime of it. That’ll just make her think I’m weird.

“Wow,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound too forced. “Barely anyone round here has heard of Bellamare, let alone comes from it. We’re a pretty tiny country.”

“I know,” she says. “I hardly ever tell anyone about my dad because I don’t usually have the patience for having this conversation. It’s no fun when you have to pull out a map to explain your roots.”

“I’ve been there before,” I chuckle, and fortunately that’s true.

“I can’t believe this at all. You’re from Bellamare.”

“Have you ever been?” I ask.

Her face falls. “No,” she says, shaking her head, “But I would love to go. I have the passport and everything. It was one of the few things Dad managed to do for me before…”

“Before…?” I push. I need her to open up to me. I need her to feel like she can trust me.

“He died when I was young,” she says, drawing back from me a little. “I’ve always wanted to go because of him. It would be really easy for me too; I wouldn’t even need a visa or anything.”

“I hate to sound forward,” I say, not feeling bad at all about pushing the conversation on, “but do you want to go for a drink after this? No pressure, no expectations. Just good company. I’ll tell you stories of home.”

She stares at me for a long moment, and I think for a second that she’s going to reject me, but then her face softens and she nods. “Okay,” she says, pushing some stray hair back behind her ear. “My shift is nearly over. If you’re willing to wait until nine, then yeah. I’ll go for a drink. Why not?”

“Sounds perfect,” I grin. And it does. “I’m Paul, by the way.”

“Chloe,” she says with a smile, and I have to stop myself from saying I know.

Without even realizing it, she’s stepped straight into my scheme, exactly where I want her.