Page 49 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

“Not for a second.” I rub my midsection gently. It feels like there’s going to be a bruise.

“You sure you’re all right?”

I look up at him. He’s so handsome in the half-light from the streetlamp. I want to reach up and brush one of his curls away, but that would be a mistake.

Because what if he flinches?

What if he moves away before I can even touch him?

The possibilities for humiliation are endless.

I close my hands into fists at my sides. “Thank you, Oli, for saving me.”

“I wasn’t going to watch you die.”

“I know, but thank you anyway.”

He smiles gently. “You want to get a cab to the hotel?”

“No… I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think I’m hungry.”

He tips his head back and laughs. “You know what, me too.”

“Should we get something to eat?”

“You think it’s safe?”

“I think the chance of me almost choking to death twice in one night is pretty low.”

“Good point.”

“There’s a place around the corner. Harper and I had lunch there yesterday.”

He holds out his hand. “Lead the way.”

I walk ahead of him. It only takes a minute to get there, and before we enter, I text Harper to let her know where I am.

“You still love pasta?” I ask him over my shoulder as I pull open the door.

“Who doesn’t love pasta?”

Good question. Only, before this trip, I hadn’t eaten pasta in two years. It was hard to do it in LA, surrounded by model/actresses and menus full of arugula salads and steamed fish. That first plate of pasta I had yesterday was like a sexual experience.

“Every diet plan ever.”

He makes a face. “You don’t need to be on a diet.”

“You’re sweet.”

I step to the woman behind the check-in counter and raise two fingers. She says something in quick, flowing Italian, then leads us to a cozy table in the corner with a white tablecloth and an actual candle flickering in a small votive glass.

We order a bottle of the house red, and she hands us each a menu. There are four main courses on it—the four Roman pastas64—plus salad and dessert.

Oliver puts down the menu and glances around. Half the tables are full—a mix of tourists and locals, by the looks of them. It feels cozy and romantic.

Maybe I should’ve picked somewhere else.

Oh, I definitely should have.

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