Page 76 of Roaming Holiday

“Oh my, that’s so sweet,” she says, scooting over and patting the space beside her. I lower as she tastes the drink before setting it aside. Her eyes linger on my shoulder when I lean my elbows on my knees, the shirt sleeve riding up. “Can I see your tattoo?”

I tug the sleeve to reveal it. Her fingers hover over my skin, and her eyes watch me for permission. I nod, suppressing a shiver at her touch. I steady my heartbeat as she drifts over the ink.

“Are they letters?” she asks.

“C for Cora. O for Olive.” The crescent moon is angled to look like a C while the sun, tucked in the C, looks like an O. Two years ago, an assignment in Istanbul led to a bullet grazing straight across my shoulder.

Nina must notice the flames around the edge, toward my back, because she asks, “Does this lead to a bigger one?”

“A phoenix across my back.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Very much.”

She refocuses on the sun and moon tattoo, her fingers tracing the scar that mars it. Despite the heat, I feel chilly when she pulls away. “Your family is really kind.”

“Yeah, they’re… they’re something.”

“Not at all what I expected,” she adds. “It makes you seem… normal.”

I release a low, sardonic huff. “Normal.”

“Under all that… stony facade”—she motions toward all of me—“is just… a normal person with a loving family.”

“That’s not quite how I’d describe myself.”

“It’s how I would,” she replies without a hint of false optimism. “Smart, too. Thoughtful… I’ve never seen you smile before today.”

I recoil. “You’ve seen me smile before.”

She shakes her head. “Not a real one. Those were polite smiles, but with your family, it was real. I could tell.”

It was real because of you. It wasn’t because of them. It should’ve been. With the military, I was Beck. With Santiago, I became El Revalté. With Nina, I get to be Wesley—for the first time in over a decade. And it pains me she doesn’t know that.

“Don’t give up on them, Wesley. They haven’t given up on you.”

Mom and Cora sent letters and emails for years, begging me to rejoin the family. And I return because of one woman. They deserve a better brother and son; I’ve long accepted that.

I shrug, my attention on the rows of orange trees in the distance. “They probably should.”

Nina grabs my shirt sleeve and pushes it up to reveal the tattoo. “You didn’t get this tattoo for people you don’t love.” She watches me defiantly, a curl drifting across her face with the breeze. “The people you love are worth fighting for.”

There isn’t a moment I forget about the sins I’ve committed. I can explain them away, but no one except for me will listen or care. I can find hope outside of Nina, but her very existence urges me to search for it. She enjoys the little things—people watching, petting a dog or cat whenever she can, testing french fries from different places, and watching the sunset and clouds at any available moment. She makes me want to search for little things I might enjoy. Like listening to her speak my native language, how dogs might be the best animal, how my city lights up at night.

Her hands haven’t moved from my shoulder and I find myself studying every slope and curve of her angular face. From her long lashes to her full lips, I struggle to determine a good enough reason not to kiss her.

Nina notices my attention on her mouth. She bristles, subtly wetting her lips, but doesn’t move away.

My head spins; she’s worth any repercussions. I punch through the tension in my chest. “Fuck it,” I whisper before catching her mouth with mine. Her breath hitches as she kisses me back, her soft lips sending shockwaves through me and my blood rushing south.

I just admitted that I can’t tell her how I feel, but when she runs a hand across my chest and tangles her fingers in the hair at my nape, I resist pulling her onto my lap to explore every inch of her. She releases a little moan into my mouth when my tongue brushes hers, tasting strawberries. Fuck. It’s not enough. I grab the back of her neck to deepen the kiss, and her hold on my hair tightens. Both of us become needier, sloppier, with her nipping my bottom lip and me gripping her waist to bring her closer.

My dick hardens when I fill one of my hands with her ass. She gasps at the pressure, arching into me.

My work phone vibrating in my front pocket is the one thing that helps us keep our clothes on.

“Karító,” I curse, digging out my phone as Nina’s hand lingers on my neck. “It’s Jack—probably about our new car.”

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