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“I get it. I suppose we’d better get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.” My eyelids feel as though they weigh a hundred pounds.

We step out of the hot tub, and Slade wraps us both up in his towel and kisses me.

“I can’t say this enough. Thanks for being here with me, Marin. Wouldn’t want to be here alone.”

We say our goodnights and retreat to our own rooms. So many thoughts wander through my mind. What will happen tomorrow? Will this go badly for Slade? How will it change him if it doesn’t work out?

Have we made a bad decision to come here and find his father? So many things can go wrong. I hope this wasn’t a huge mistake.

In spite of my worry, sleep wins the day, and I drift into oblivion.

chapter twenty-three

SLADE IS PACINGthe living room like a caged tiger. He’s dressed in slacks, loafers, and a button-up shirt, his sleeves rolled up. He looks casually handsome in a way I’ve never seen before. I miss the beach bum vibe, but I like this side of Slade too.

Okay, I love it. “Good morning.”

He stops pacing and faces me. “Good morning. I took the liberty of ordering breakfast.”

“Thank you.”

We take our seats at the small dining table with silver-dome-covered plates neatly displayed next to fancily folded white cloth napkins, highly polished silverware, and tall champagne flutes filled with no-pulp orange juice.

“So fancy,” I remark.

Tension fills the air. I’ve never met nervous Slade. Meeting all the different sides to a person is imperative for a relationship to succeed. And I want us to not only succeed, but to blossom. I won’t mention the word blossom. He’ll think his man card is gone again.

He doesn’t meet my eyes as his fingers drum the table. I want to be there for him so much, but I’m not sure what to say to bring him comfort.

We remove the lids from the plates and find croissants, different types of breads with butter and jam, biscuits, pastries filled with custard cream, and fruit.

“Mom said Italian breakfasts are filled with sweets, giving everyone a shot of energy for the day.”

“Yum.” I miss Slade’s breakfast buffet, but this breakfast looks delicious as well. It’s different from what I’m used to, but I’ll enjoy it anyway. Such a hard task.

As I’m eating with gusto, I notice Slade isn’t eating much. I slow down a bit, feeling guilty.

He takes an envelope out of his pocket, unfolds it, and spreads it out on the table. “Here’s the address. The lady at the front desk gave me directions. Then she asked me if I’d ever heard of Google Maps.”

“Burn.”

“Right? At any rate, it shouldn’t be hard to find.”

This isn’t the Slade I know. He’s out of his element here. I miss seeing him in his comfort zone at Sheridan House with the ocean roaring in his backyard.

Italy holds his roots. It’s where his family comes from. He didn’t grow up here, though. I’m sure he feels like a fish out of water. He couldn’t be more of a foreigner if he tried.

“You know what, Slade?”

“What?” he says, looking confused, like he forgot I was in the room. His thoughts are a million miles away.

“I haven’t met a person who doesn’t like you. Your guests love you and rave about you. You’re an amazing man. Don’t forget that, okay?”

His worried eyes meet mine. He rubs his hands over his face. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt this nervous. I want him to like me. I want a father/son relationship. Fact is, I’m different. I’m American. He’s Italian. Our cultures are different, our languages are different. What if he doesn’t like me? How will this work?”

“It worked for your mom. It will work for you. Think of the letters. That kind of love doesn’t go away. His love for your mother will transfer to you.”

“If he’s still alive, if he’s still here, if he even remembers my mom.” He rests his forehead in one hand as though he has a monster of a headache.

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