Page 57 of Roaming Holiday

“No, we won’t.”

“We’ll see.”

“We won’t.”

“Sure,” Maia sings.

While Vanessa turns her focus elsewhere and my sister finds a way to debate with everyone possible, I untangle from my cousin’s arms and head to Wesley with squared shoulders. I slip into the space between his chest and the display counter.

I peek into the paper bag on the surface. “Is this ours?”

“O-oh—yes,” the baker stutters.

“Gracea mucho!” I say, turning to Wesley and holding up the bag. “Carry this for me?”

He looks at me, confused, but accepts it, nonetheless.

So much for getting over him.

After walking through a few narrow and bumpy streets, we arrive at our destination—a white house tucked between other pristine courtyards. The walls are just high enough that I can’t see over them.

The path to the other side of the house reveals an infinity pool, a few lounge chairs, and a broad, unobstructed view of the sea. It’s eight o’clock at night and the sun is just beginning to set on the horizon.

“I can die happy,” Maia says.

I nod, marveling at the vibrant shades of orange. “This is where I live now.”

Remembering that I’m here because my birth mother was a queen makes it even more surreal. Vanessa takes us on a quick tour of the three-hundred-year-old house, pointing out its modern upgrades made for longevity. I head straight to the shower when I’m brought to my room. Though I typically lock the door when I shower, I leave it open for the possibility that I fall asleep under the water.

28

WESLEY

The best part of this job is Nina.

But I forgot how peaceful Maldana’s views are. The scenery along the boat ride and in Antina reminded me why I didn’t return to America with Mom and Cora. It’s a paradise for many reasons and can be summed up to the comfort my home gives me.

Remembering this feeling has a hint of familiarity—and I realize it’s shared with the woman currently giving me the cold shoulder. Does she regret what happened in the bathroom last night? Maybe it was too vulnerable.

By the time I finish sweeping the perimeter of the property, Maia is waiting at the front door with a concerned look on her face. She’s a softer version of Nina, with rounder cheeks and eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She folds her arms and leans against the threshold. “I’m worried about Nina.”

“Did something happen?”

Last I checked, she’s in the shower. But Maia shakes her head. “No, just with… the whole attack. I tried, but—she won’t talk about it. Not even to me.”

If this were any other client, I’d stay out of it. I protect Nina; her emotional healing should not be my concern or responsibility. But that’s not the case with her—and I’m loath that Maia notices. I can’t imagine the secrets these two sisters share.

“Are you trying to ask me something?” I scrounge up my kindest tone, and I still come across as bothered and irritated.

Maia smothers a frustrated scoff and turns around. “Never mind.”

I bite my tongue. I thought I was getting better at a sympathetic demeanor. It doesn’t seem so. “Tell me what you need,” I call after her, not in the inviting way she might want, but we’re both worried about Nina—even if I won’t say it out loud.

“To just—look out for her.”

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