LYRA

07.07.15

Due to a conference they’re hosting, the only room available at the hotel is a luxury suite, and even though I would’ve preferred my own room, it’s nothing short of spectacular. Contemporary yet cozy, the crisp, straight lines and modern décor remind me quite a bit of my apartment back home. A plush burgundy sofa and a matching oversized loveseat are cozily situated in front of a giant flat screen TV in the living room area. It flows openly into the full-size kitchen that’s decked out with top-of-the-line appliances and a stocked fridge.

Off the main living area is a sprawling bedroom fitted with a four-poster king-size bed and an en-suite bathroom decked out for a princess, showcasing a giant Jacuzzi tub big enough for at least four people. If the reason for my being here was anything other than being a refugee, I’d be more than impressed with the place and would probably be taking pictures of everything for decorating notes to use back home.

But instead, it’s almost 1:00 in the morning and we just spent the last thirty minutes on the phone with the American Embassy, as instructed to do so by the hotel staff, confirming our identity, answering questions about the attack, and letting them know we’ll check in before returning to the States. Now, as we stand here with dark half-moons under our eyes and slumped shoulders, the realization that neither Tavian nor I have any clothes to change into after we shower, as our suitcases were left behind in the airport, just sets in.

All I have with me besides what I’m wearing is what’s in my backpack—my camera and two lenses, laptop, passport, wallet, a hairbrush, phone, earbuds, and the wooden box. Tavian has even less since he didn’t have a carry-on bag, leaving him with only his passport and wallet that were stuffed in the back pockets of his jeans.

“There’s soap and shampoo and stuff, some lotion, and a little bottle of mouthwash, but that’s about it,” Tavian reports as he emerges from a scavenger hunt for supplies in the bathroom. “You would think, in a fancy place like this, they’d at least have robes.”

“Not in here either. Only extra pillows and blankets that I can use on the couch tonight.” I shrug my sagging shoulders, close the slatted closet door, and then turn to face him. “I guess we’ll just have to wear these clothes until we can go get something in the morning when the stores open.”

“You aren’t sleeping on the couch tonight, and you aren’t wearing that shirt any longer,” he growls, then proceeds to haul his own T-shirt over his head and toss it at me.

Snagging it out of midair, I crinkle my forehead up in confusion. “Wh-what? Why? What do you mean?” I sputter, unable to stop my gaze from roaming over his broad, powerful shoulders and chest, down to the lean chiseled muscles of his lower abdomen.

This seriously has to be the strangest twenty-four hours of my life. A transatlantic flight, a terrorist attack, a daredevil escape, a road trip with a stranger, and now a sexy half-dressed man standing within reaching distance. Five firsts for me.

“I mean there’s not a chance in hell I’m letting you sleep on that couch, because I’m a man who was raised with manners and respect. So as long as you’re traveling with me, you will always have the bed. And as far as the shirt”—he tips his chin and points at my left hip—“I just noticed there’s blood splattered all over the back of yours, and there’s no way I’m letting you sleep in that bad memory.”

I blink hard but say nothing. Damn, he’s bossy sometimes, but as much as I want it to irritate me, it doesn’t. And I can’t decide if the fact I’m not irritated is irritating in itself.

I really need some sleep. The exhaustion is killing my brain cells.

Tavian interprets my silence as a lack of objection and continues with his instructions. “Put my shirt on after your shower, and I’ll be fine in my jeans. In the morning, you can run down and grab me something from the hotel gift shop that’ll work until we can get to a store.”

“And then?” I blurt out, finally ripping my eyes away from his bare chest up to his pursed lips. “Do you have a plan? Don’t you think we need to try to go home?”

It only takes one long stride from his over-six-foot frame for him to be well within my personal bubble yet again, his mesmerizing blue stare demanding my full attention. Our bodies are as close as they can be and not be touching, and the room suddenly seems much smaller than it did five seconds ago.

And much warmer.

“Every summer since I was eighteen, I’ve taken a bucket-list trip, crossing off items in my never-ending notebook of things I want to do before I die. They started close to home when I was younger, things I could afford, like hiking Niagara Falls, partying on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras, catching a Red Sox game from the Green Monster in Fenway. Those couple weeks, where I get to explore and wander and learn shit I never knew about myself and this crazy ass world we live in, are the highlight of my year. They’re my reminder to live life to the fullest, to not take anything for granted.” He pauses for a rough swallow, as if he’s suppressing an unpleasant memory. “Not a single fucking day.

“What we lived through today only reinforces the importance of my trips. Those hateful cowards stole the running of the bulls from me, but I’ll be damned if I let them take anything else.” His nostrils flare with indignation and disgust before he adds, “And if you had other destinations planned on this trip, then you shouldn’t let them take those either.”

“I was here to photograph the San Fermin Festival for the magazine I work for,” I admit, while absentmindedly wrapping and unwrapping his T-shirt around my hand, “but my next assignment isn’t until the first week of August, so I was thinking about catching a train or something over to Florence for a few days. I had some family stuff I wanted to do, but nothing set in stone.”

“You need to go!” he urges, face animated. “Look, Florence is right in the middle of all my stops through southern France and northern Italy. I was only planning on passing through there, but I could definitely rearrange some things and we could stay there a couple of nights. That is… if you’d like to tag along with me. I can even pay you to take pictures, documenting my excursions and the trip in general. I have a GoPro camera, but I rarely get photos of me doing stuff, so this would be perfect.”

Not sure I heard him correctly, I give him my best maybe-your-mom-had-a-reason-to-question-why-I-got-in-the-car-with-your-crazy-ass look. “Did you just ask me to go on a road trip with you? Like it’s completely normal to suggest two people who barely know each other hopping in a car together and perusing the European countryside for a couple of weeks?”

“Yeah, and…? You were planning on going to Florence anyway, so just ride with me there. It’s not like the trains or buses will be running for at least a day or two until everything calms down. If you can’t stand me by the time we get there, I’ll take you to the airport and we can go our separate ways. You already trust me enough to stay with me here tonight.” He motions around the hotel room. “What’s a few more cities on the way, all on my dime?”

I hate how much his argument makes sense. Almost as much as I hate how badly I want to go with him. I tell myself it’s because I know this is the last summer trip he’ll ever take and I want to capture these memories for his family when he’s gone. But ultimately, I know it’s something more. Something deeper… scarier… unknown. Something cosmic.

He smirks as he sees the fight leave my face. “You never know, Lyra Jennings who lives in Brooklyn. You just might enjoy yourself with me.”

Yeah, Tavian West from Philadelphia, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.