CHAPTER 50
Caroline
“Let them go. We’ll be there in a bit,” Edoardo groans into the kiss, his hands pulling me closer as if there’s still an inch of space left between us.
“We can’t be late,” I protest, but my lips clearly don’t get the memo. They keep finding his, betraying every sensible intention I have. For a fleeting second, I curse Michael and his stupid brunch. I want nothing except my hotel room, Edoardo, and the world politely staying out.
The phone rings again. This time, they terrorize my room phone. The impatience of my crew is ramping up a level.
I sigh, reaching for it, while Edoardo’s mouth drifts to my cheek, my ear, the curve of my neck like he’s trying to negotiate with kisses.
I raise a brow as I answer. “Hello?”
“Cara, we are waiting for you two,” Connor says, amusement practically dripping through the line.
“Be right there,” I reply, trying to sound more put-together than I feel.
At this point everyone must have known Edoardo and I are back together. Subtlety has officially left the building.
We lingered far longer than we should have beneath the magnolia tree earlier, stealing one last slow kiss before heading back to the hotel.
Edoardo kept my hand clasped tightly in his as we walked back, like letting go might somehow undo us.
Every few steps, he’d lean in, press a kiss into my hair, and brush one against my cheek, my lips as if he was trying to steal back time.
The second we stepped into my room, my phone lit up like a crime scene. Gigi and Michael had apparently formed a task force.
Why did you go for beignets without me?
Why didn’t you bring any back?
Are you with Edoardo?
How many times did he make you scream last night?
Was the makeup sex amazing?
Did you wear the little sexy thing I bought for you?
And yes, exactly in that order. You already know who asked what.
We barely manage an uninterrupted kiss before another wave of messages crashes in. The hangry brigade (equal parts hungover and angry) threatens to kick my door down if we don’t show up in the lobby immediately.
It turns out that romance has a strict time limit when you travel with a pack of friends that include dramatic extroverts.
The tornado finally dies down the second Edoardo and I walk into the lobby hand in hand. Actually, no - the tornado dies, but a volcano of celebration erupts instead. Full chaos with grown adults bouncing like kids turned loose in a candy store with unlimited credit and no supervision.
They’re happy for me, which is sweet. But do they have to be this aggressively happy?
My eyes narrow at Connor, catching the silent conversation passing between him and Edoardo. Michael, of course I expected that from him, the ringleader of this entire New Orleans circus. But Connor… yeah, he definitely had a hand.
I march toward him, fully intending to punch his arm, but he sidesteps and pulls me into a tight hug before I can land it.
“I’m really happy for you.” He kisses my cheek. “Now the pact becomes a couple pact, Cara. Double dates in London?”
“I’m happy for me too, Con.” I hug him tight. “And yes for double dates. I still want to punch you for working with Edoardo though.”
Connor smiles, “I’ll take it, Cara. As many punches as you can throw. But you’re happy now and that’s all I need.”
Before I can mutter a response to that admittance from my best friend, Celina slips in, and suddenly I’m trapped in a hug sandwich.
“I’m happy for you too, Caroline,” she says, voice bright but thick with feeling. “At least, now I’ll have leverage when I need to get your attention once I move back stateside, boss.”
I laugh. “Love you, Celina and Con.” Then, I tell Celina, “And don’t even think about quitting. You’re stuck with me until I say otherwise.”
My fiercely loyal, endlessly brilliant Chief of Staff rolls her eyes, but she squeezes me tighter anyway.
For so long, Edoardo and I circled each other - two stubborn, guarded people with strong opinions and an equal fear of rejection, managing to push each other away even while falling.
Luckily, this circus of friends who know us at our core and refuse to let us hide finally dragged our heads out of the sand and shoved us back together.
Brunch dissolves into hours of laughter, teasing, and stories told too loudly. By afternoon we spill into the streets of New Orleans like a small traveling circus. Edoardo keeps spritzing his nose and popping extra Zyrtec, but he never once lets go of my hand.
We bar-crawl after swapping outfits back at the hotel, mercifully feather-free this time.
When dinner rolls around, no one can pretend to be hungry after the po’boys as bar snack we demolished earlier, so it turns into cocktails and desserts instead.
Bananas Foster flames leap up from the table, and everyone cheers like delighted pyromaniacs.
Then comes a nighttime cemetery tour, because apparently sugar and alcohol make us fearless. We stomp through the dark in ridiculous metallic outfits, laughing loud enough to scare anything supernatural straight back into their afterlife.
The night keeps stretching, more laughter, more bickering, then laughter again. It’s one of those rare, golden evenings that feels like it might never end. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Edoardo’s hand stays wrapped in mine as a quiet promise I don’t need words to understand.