Page 31 of Something Like Fate

“With all due respect to Will Smith, you look nothing alike. You are way hotter,” I point out.

He clutches his chest. “Oh my god. Thank you for saying that.”

“But that’s horrible. This isn’t as bad, but one time I tagged along with my dad on a work trip to the Netherlands, and our taxi driver asked me,Where are you really from?when I said I was American.”

Lionel shakes his head. “See? This is what I’m saying. I always have to second-guess if someone is being rude because they’re just an asshat or because of another reason.” He tosses his head back in a sigh. “It would have been nice to have Paul here, at least.”

“I almost came alone too. My friend broke her foot. But luckily, I forced him to come with me,” I say, turning toward Teller. He was still swept up in conversation with Riley.

“He’s hot. In a hottest-guy-in-the-chess-club kinda way. You sure he’s not your soulmate?”

“He’s my best friend. And I think he might be flirting?” I can only bear witness to the interaction for a couple more moments before it starts to feel a little weird.

Lionel agrees they’re indeed flirting, and suggests we give Teller and Riley some private time. We sneak some complimentary biscotti and lemon-infused water from the fancy hotel next door and sip it under the awning. It’s shaded, thank gosh. The Italian sun is no joke, even by late afternoon. I have major boob sweat.

Fatigue aside, I take a good long look at everyone who passes by, wondering whether they’re my person.

Once we’ve cooled off, Lionel wanders across the street to take selfies on the idyllic cobblestone bridge. “Do you mind taking my pic?”

“Sure, no problem.” I leave the comfort of my shaded area to take his photo, even lying on the hot ground to get a good shot.

“As my vacation wifey, I feel compelled to warn you: if you get my double chin, I’ll consider it a violation of trust,” he warns, checking every couple pictures to ensure the angle is optimal.

Keen to return to shade, I do a swift backward shuffle to the middle of the street to capture some quick full-body shots. Just when I’m about to take the last picture, there’s a noisy rumble, followed by the rattle ofmetal clanking against concrete. Before I can identify the source, a deep voice bellows, “Watch out!”

I snap my neck to the left. And that’s when I see it. A runaway trolley filled with luggage, hurtling down the cobblestone slope straight toward me.

9

This is it. This is how it ends.

Goodbye, sweet world. It’s been a decent run. There’s nothing to do but accept it, and maybe laugh at my cause of death: crushed like a pancake by a trolley of luggage. Funny how my death will be more remarkable than my actual life.

Let me set the scene. I’m frozen like a gangly deer on a busy highway, eyes squeezed shut, bracing myself to become roadkill. Because who wants to bear witness to their own brutal flattening? I hope it’s quick and painless, at least.

Then, without notice, a statuesque blur darts in and shoves me backward, flat on my ass.

From here on, everything happens in slo-mo. The ripple and ridge of a muscled back visible under a moisture-wicking T-shirt that’s strained to the max. It’s truly a religious experience, catching the pulse and pull of each muscle as the figure stops the trolley with sheer brute force, rooting it in place. I’ve never seen such a specimen in real life.

And that’s when he turns around and changes life as I know it.

If you look upLo Zhao-Jensen’s type, this guy’s face, and let’s be honest, whole body, would be it. Sure, Mark B. also has a killer physique, but this guy has the full package. In fact, his face should be under federal protection, forever preserved behind temperature-controlled glass for future generations to worship.

He’s a rugged kind of handsome that sets him apart, with a jawline so angular, even under all that scruff, it could surely cut glass. As could his tanned cheekbones, dusted with light freckles from the sun. I’m positive his entire essence was etched by the gods. His slightly bulbous nose, pillowy lips, and a small scar above his thick right brow are the only qualities that make him look faintly approachable.

“Are you okay?” His deep baritone voice tickles my insides like a feather duster. As he leans closer, I’m overcome by a familiar scent. It’s sweet, with deep, nutty notes of vanilla. Familiar. Too familiar. Exactly like in my vision.

I blink, mouth hanging wide open. This is the dude who saved my life. Marvel superhero–style. “I—uh—I—”

“Are you hurt?” he asks, running a hand through wavy, sun-bleached hair that’s long enough to pull into a man bun.

I shake my head. My tailbone is throbbing from the impact and my elbow is bloody. But breathing in his earthy, chocolate-espresso scent proves an excellent painkiller.

He grins, nearly blinding me with his pearly whites. “Think you can stand?”

“I’ll try.”

By now, there are about ten people crowded around us. I think I spot Ernest and Posie, but their faces blur entirely when my rescuer reaches to help me up. His hand is nearly twice the size of my super sweaty palm, and the contact nearly turns all the bones in my body to Jell-O.

---