Page 51 of The Perfect Rom-Com

I purse my lips. Type back. Working on it now.

Geez, the man is pushy.

The reply is instant. What are you waiting for?

A miracle, apparently, I type back and then silence my phone.

I swivel toward Gran and pick up my teacup and saucer. The wheels are spinning as I turn at the door. “Hey, Gran. For what it’s worth, I’m going to try to get this place back regardless.”

She dips her head. “I know you will, stubborn child.”

“And as for my mysterious money-making skills . . . I’ll need some time off . . . pretty much immediately.”

Her brow jerks up. “Can you tell me exactly why?”

I pause. Shake my head.

“Is it . . . legal?”

To which I laugh. No, Gran, I’ve run off with the Florence mafia. “Yes.”

“And you need how long?”

“Two weeks.”

Her eyes become saucers. Honestly, of all the things said this morning, this is what has caused the most reaction from her? I suppose to some extent it makes sense. I’ve never taken so much time away before and never on such short notice.

“Can I tell you no?” she says.

“Do we have subs available?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose you can.” I sigh. “But I’ll have to go anyway.”

And for the first time, Gran looks at me like I truly am some sort of secret agent for something mysterious. No, she looks at me like she’s just realized there’s more to me than plain, happy-go-lucky Bryony.

And to be completely honest, it looks like I’ve just gained some sort of respect.

“Wherever will you be going, with your mysterious money and your mysterious plans?”

“You know, Gran,” I say, opening the door, “I’m not entirely sure myself. But I can guarantee one thing: I’m going to loathe every minute of it.”

Chapter 8

“You told her you were going to loathe this? You are so dramatic, Bryony. Only you could declare you would loathe this.”

Jack sits back, leaning against one of the many large windows where behind us the cars fly past. Pretty much every single passing vehicle includes somebody pressing their face to the window, angling up for a picture of the bus with Amelia’s massive face along the side.

I am sitting just where Amelia’s teeth are.

Jack is sitting on her hand perched on top of a load of books. At the center of the table is a cauliflower-crust pizza left over from lunch. Apparently, our stops are not dictated by the need for gasoline but by five-star gluten-free restaurants and how quickly they can deliver boxes of goodies inside. Whether or not it turns out that the restaurant is incredibly remote and the bus ends up having to see how far it can squeeze into one-way streets before hitting a parked car.

The food is, I’ll grudgingly admit, very good.

Amelia is in the back bedroom. Lying on her massive bed. In a massive robe. Wearing some glowing red light mask on her face. The mask’s box declares, “This revolutionary treatment is guaranteed to take off ten years!”

Apparently the “shocking reality” of having two more people on her giant tour bus led to a migraine only red-light treatment will soothe.