Page 181 of One Wrong Move

I’ve rolled down my window, and the winding, narrow road takes us through the groves of olive trees. Old, gnarled, and beautiful. The air smells like heat and dry earth.

“How are you feeling?” Nate asks. “About completing your list?”

I put my hand over his. “Looking forward to doing the very last one tonight.”

He smiles at me. “Good thinking saving it for last.”

Dancing in the moonlight. We’re going to do that right before midnight… The last hour of my twenty-ninth year.

Rolling in with an entirely check-marked list in that final minute.

“I feel good,” I say. “Looking back at everything we’ve done… I can’t believe this has been my life.”

Every major art museum in Europe that I had on my list is checked off. The crazy thing like take a hot air balloon is accomplished, and so is the sleep in a tent, which Nate and I did together and vowed to never do again.

“Has been?” he asks. His thumb moves in a slow circle. “You have lots of time. I can’t wait to see your ‘40 Under 40’ list.”

I smile. “I think I’m done with lists.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. After tonight, I’ve done it all. Well, except for one thing on the list.”

“The threesome,” he says.

I laugh. “No, that one has been officially struck off the list. No, the whole buy my first art piece thing… Maybe it was stupid of me to pull out from the auction last week, but it just didn’t feel right.”

“Then it was the right move,” Nate says. “It should feel right.”

I hmm a response and look back at the rolling hills of Tuscany. The scenery reminds me of that painting my grandma has, the one that inspired it all. Nate has seen it now, too, back in upstate New York. Introducing him to my family had been nerve-racking… Until they actually met, and I realized I shouldn’t have been nervous at all. Of course, he loved them. And they loved him.

He’s easy to love.

“I think you’re right. When I know, I’ll know,” I say. Working with art every day is a privilege, but it’s also made me picky about what I want in my own little collection.

Living with Nate has also made me very choosy. I’m surrounded by stunning pieces morning, afternoon, and night.

“The hotel for tonight seems amazing,” I tell Nate. Lean out of the car and into the sunshine. It’s late afternoon. “Do you think the pool will still be open when we arrive?”

“Might be,” he says, but there’s something in his voice. A secret…

I look over at him.

He looks at me, a sparkle in his eye.

“What are you planning?” I ask.

His lips curve into a crooked smile, and he looks back at the winding road. “We’re not heading straight to the hotel.”

Instead, he drives us to a residential address that I don’t recognize on the GPS. It’s close by, though, that much is clear. The route leads us through a beautiful tiny village with streets so narrow that Nate has to slow the car to a crawl. We finally drive up a cypress-lined road to a small farmhouse.

“Here?” I sit up straighter and peer out. “What’s this place?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” he says warmly. Pulls the car into a parking spot right outside the small dwelling—dark earthen walls and a roof that blends in with the surrounding Tuscan landscape. A few chickens walk by the side of the house, clucking rhythmically as if unhappy with our intrusion into their domain.

The front door is open.

To the right is… is that an easel?

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