Page 141 of Trouble from Abroad
Pres promised me fire, wine, cheese, and the smell of burned paper before bed. The rest of my list is going up in smoke, one wish at a time. I’m counting down the hours.
We just need to stop by a few stores first; there’s a special one he wants to take me.
Still, my chest feels tight with the kind of joy that always costs something.
The universe loves a setup, and this happiness? It’s begging for a twist.
I smile anyway. That’s tomorrow Mia’s problem.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
mia
This will bethe first time he’s used the fireplace since I arrived, and I’m more excited than any self-respecting adult should be about crackling flames and toasted marshmallows.
We’re stocking up for our night in—wine, cheese, wood, and the kind of quiet that promises more. Pres stacked the wood by size this morning, laid out blankets by the fireplace, even found the exact Barolo I raved about once in a voice note.
Preston takes me to this tiny charcuterie shop he found. Twinkle lights tangled around hanging hams, a bell that chimes every time the door opens, and a shopkeeper who treats every salami as his legacy. I already have crackers and baguettes peeking out of my tote, and next we’re heading to the cheese store where I plan to go absolutely bonkers.
The owner is a talker and a believer in endless samples. Preston listens with that intent look that makes people open up, like the man’s explaining philosophy instead of pork curing.
I lean into his side, and his arm comes around me automatically. His thumb slips under the waistband of my jeans, finding skin, the way he always does.
He makes me feel claimed without caging me.
I’m still not used to that kind of safety. But I adore it.
I rest my head against his shoulder. Above everything else in this store, his scent hits me first: bergamot and cedarwood. Sharp, earthy, and entirely him. I’ve sniffed it straight from the bottle, and it never smells this good without his skin under it. Even in this cured-meat cathedral, his is the only smell I can focus on.
I moan around another slice of something divine, and he squeezes my hip, half warning, half habit. The salesman chuckles, appearing delighted, and I giggle into my napkin. These meats don’t need a sales pitch; they’re all coming home with us.
Home.
That word lands heavier these days. More real. Every night I sleep in his bed, the place feels less borrowed.
Preston’s phone buzzes. “The hospital,” he says. He mumbles an apology, mouth full of bresaola—coppa? pancetta? whatever—and ducks out into the cold to take the call. His breath fogs against the glass, his hand gesturing as he speaks.
Then…
A name.
“Blake?” he says, facing the crowd, phone hanging useless at his side, and then he shouts it. “Blake!”
My world tilts.
He’s already moving, pushing through people, scanningthe crowd outside, calling that name again—louder each time.
I don’t move.
I-I can’t.
For a heartbeat, I convince myself I misheard him. It’s a patient. A different Blake. Give me a reason, universe. Any reason. I rub my eyes, chase logic, but his voice cuts sharper.
And then he’s running.
Air abandons my lungs. The cold rushes in with a new customer.
He runs. I stay put.
