9
T his is it. This is how it ends.
Goodbye, sweet world. It’s been a decent run. There’s nothing to do but accept it, and maybe laugh at my cause of death: crushed like a pancake by a trolley of luggage. Funny how my death will be more remarkable than my actual life.
Let me set the scene. I’m frozen like a gangly deer on a busy highway, eyes squeezed shut, bracing myself to become roadkill. Because who wants to bear witness to their own brutal flattening? I hope it’s quick and painless, at least.
Then, without notice, a statuesque blur darts in and shoves me backward, flat on my ass.
From here on, everything happens in slo-mo. The ripple and ridge of a muscled back visible under a moisture-wicking T-shirt that’s strained to the max. It’s truly a religious experience, catching the pulse and pull of each muscle as the figure stops the trolley with sheer brute force, rooting it in place. I’ve never seen such a specimen in real life.
And that’s when he turns around and changes life as I know it.
If you look up Lo Zhao-Jensen’s type , this guy’s face, and let’s be honest, whole body, would be it. Sure, Mark B. also has a killer physique, but this guy has the full package. In fact, his face should be under federal protection, forever preserved behind temperature-controlled glass for future generations to worship.
He’s a rugged kind of handsome that sets him apart, with a jawline so angular, even under all that scruff, it could surely cut glass. As could his tanned cheekbones, dusted with light freckles from the sun. I’m positive his entire essence was etched by the gods. His slightly bulbous nose, pillowy lips, and a small scar above his thick right brow are the only qualities that make him look faintly approachable.
“Are you okay?” His deep baritone voice tickles my insides like a feather duster. As he leans closer, I’m overcome by a familiar scent. It’s sweet, with deep, nutty notes of vanilla. Familiar. Too familiar. Exactly like in my vision.
I blink, mouth hanging wide open. This is the dude who saved my life. Marvel superhero–style. “I—uh—I—”
“Are you hurt?” he asks, running a hand through wavy, sun-bleached hair that’s long enough to pull into a man bun.
I shake my head. My tailbone is throbbing from the impact and my elbow is bloody. But breathing in his earthy, chocolate-espresso scent proves an excellent painkiller.
He grins, nearly blinding me with his pearly whites. “Think you can stand?”
“I’ll try.”
By now, there are about ten people crowded around us. I think I spot Ernest and Posie, but their faces blur entirely when my rescuer reaches to help me up. His hand is nearly twice the size of my super sweaty palm, and the contact nearly turns all the bones in my body to Jell-O.
“I’m Caleb,” he informs me as he pulls me to my own two feet.
Caleb.
“Pleasure to meet you, Caleb,” I say in a strange movie accent.
“Do you have a name?” he asks, the corner of his lips teasing a smile.
There’s something about his face that strikes a familiar chord, deep down in my gut. It’s just like the feeling I had when we landed in Venice, like I’ve seen him before. But I haven’t. The sensation is so overpowering, I barely register his question. “Uh, I think so,” I answer, still with the weird accent.
“Are you staying here? At the Royal?” he asks when I fail to tell him my name.
I squeeze my eyes into a squint, making a concerted effort to force away the accent. Be normal, Lo. “Oh god no. I’m not fancy enough for that. I’m next door. At Doge’s Delight. For the next two days.”
“Me too!” he says with a charming wink. “Anyway, I gotta go check in. But looks like I’ll be seeing you around, girl with no name .”
He flashes one last smile over his shoulder and my body is no longer my own. I want to bottle his image so I can remember it for all of eternity.
Before I can muster a response, Teller comes rushing out of the hostel. “Lo! Are you okay?”
“Better than okay,” I say with full confidence. I just met The One.