Page 72 of Roaming Holiday

Wesley opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He focuses on the highway through a small mountain. I’ve known him long enough to decipher his body language. Right now, I can tell he’s wrestling with himself. If he has trouble talking to others, it’s probably a much harder obstacle to open up.

“You helped me through the worst night of my life,” I remind him.

The furrow in his brow dissipates. “That was my job,” he deadpans, and I notice the automatic nature of his reply. He’s convincing himself, not me.

“It wasn’t your job to hold me as I cried or wash my hair. It wasn’t your job to play UNO with me at three o’clock in the morning. It’s okay for?—”

POP!

The car trembles from what feels like an explosion. I grapple for the door handle as my stomach lurches. “What is that? What happened?”

Wesley curses in Maldanian as he switches gears. “The tire probably blew out.”

But the car keeps making weird noises while he hits the gas, aiming for the emergency shoulder up ahead. This is the one thing I hate about Europe: there aren’t enough shoulders on the roads. If this happened three miles back, we would be screwed.

The car makes it just into safety before smoke starts to escape from under the hood of the car.

“I don’t think the tire blew out,” I say.

35

NINA

Wesley has been on the phone for the last ten minutes.

I climb out of the car, unable to take the still heat any longer. The steep hill right over the edge of the railing has patches of green in the dirt. At least it’s not a cliff.

“I don’t fucking care if it’s an old car! Did it even pass inspection?” Wesley snaps, then pauses as the other person talks. “The princess won’t do that…” He sighs and drops his arm by his side, phone in hand. “Do you want a helicopter to come get us?” My wide eyes are enough of an answer; a helicopter is worse. He lifts the phone back to his ear. “The princess says no... We’re still four hours away.”

He looks at me for a long moment before turning his back and speaking quieter. Waiting a couple of hours for another car wouldn’t be the hard part; the sun is nearly at its highest point.

After another ten minutes, Wesley walks toward the car with his phone back in his pocket. “Someone will pick us up and let us stay overnight. Jack will send someone with a new car for us sometime between now and morning.”

I cross my arms. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He ducks back into the car, and I follow suit.

“Who’s picking us up?”

“You’ll see.”

That’s a cryptic answer I’m not okay with. “You expect me to be okay with not knowing where I’ll be sleeping tonight?”

He checks his watch. “You’ll know in about forty-five minutes.”

“What—”

“Nina,” he warns, and I pause at the vulnerability in his eyes. “Trust me… please.”

Forty-five minutes later, a pick-up truck approaches from the opposite direction and pulls a U-turn. By the time the driver gets out of the car, Wesley has our bags ready.

A man at least sixty years old dressed in linen pants and a shirt grins at my bodyguard. He’s at least six inches shorter, forcing Wesley to bend as he hugs him.

Not quite the person I was expecting.

Nonetheless, Wesley speaks to him briefly before putting our bags in the bed of the truck.

When the man looks at me, I attempt a smile. “Ciao.”

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