Elise didn’t say anything for a long moment. In fact, it was so long Harper turned onto her back and wondered if she should peel herself off the bed, grab her clothes, and go. But then Elise cleared her throat and leaned forward. “I’ve been thinking about what’s going to happen between us when the show is done.”
“Good,” Harper said, shifting up in bed until she was sitting upright. The sheet fell to her midriff, and she let it. She was perfectly confident letting her breasts hang free. This wasthe conversation she had been hoping for, and she was ready. All Harper needed now was a long-term plan. Up until this point, she’d only had a series of short-term plans: getting back on her feet after theNational Geographicthing, applying for a job onThe Sapphic Match,and reconnecting with Elise. She needed something steadier now that London was no longer her home. It wasn’t that she couldn’t go back. London was more than big enough for her and Harry. It was just that she chose not to. Elise wasn’t in London. Moving back there without her would be like going home without one of her feet.
“So have I,” Harper said.
“I think we should—”
“Try to make things work,” Harper blurted, too fast, too hopeful. “Maybe I’ll move to Los Angeles. Get a little apartment near you and we can…” but her words trailed off. The look on Elise’s face sent a drop-kick sensation straight into her chest. And the image of Saturday morning markets together, early evening dinners, dessert at an ice cream truck around the corner from the restaurant, had gone right with it. Had she really gotten it that wrong? “That’s not what you were going to say, is it?”
Elise shook her head. Harper didn’t even need to hear Elise say anything. Just the look on her face was enough to tell her the truth: that there’d be no moving forward together.
“I think I need some space,” Elise said, looking down at her hands in her lap. They were fiddling with a piece of thread that had come loose. “Just for a little while until I can figure things out.”
“What do you need to figure out?” Harper asked, even though she knew the answer. Harper had months to figure out who she was. She’d been through every step: the sudden clarity of realizing she was gay, the feelings of guilt for not acknowledging it sooner, for leading Harry on. Most of this self-discovery she’d done alone at The Royal George on CharingCross Road, where she’d scribbled half-formed confessions on the pages of her Moleskine and downed one gin and tonic after the next.
Elise, on the other hand, had been bombarded by Harper showing up in Positano. Her feelings hadn’t yet had the chance to settle, probably hadn’t even had the space to breathe. Harper was like the constant breeze slipping under the door, stirring the dust. So, yes, Harper understood why Elise needed space. But that didn’t mean she liked it.
“You don’t have to explain,” she added quickly. In fact, she suddenly didn’t want her to say anything. It was best she didn’t. Harper slipped out of bed and reached for her panties lying on the floor. “It’s okay.” She managed to hook her bra despite her hands acting as if they had never done it before. “I understand.” Once she’d gathered her top and jeans, she shrugged them both on.
Elise watched. Her knees were tucked up and her hair was mussed. “I don’t want you to leave,” she said, her voice soft and pathetic sounding.
But Harper couldn’t stay. She wouldn’t allow herself to. She slipped the camera strap over her shoulder. “If you need space, I’ll give you space,” she said, then she headed toward the bedroom door and pulled it open. “I’ll see you around.”
~~
Harper was glad for the next one-on-one date. She needed the distraction. Hell, she needed a lot more than just a distraction because two hours before, when she’d pulled her lips from Elise’s, she’d actually naively believed that her world was finally settling into place.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
Harper climbed the narrow stone steps leading up from Viale Pasitea and ducked beneath the striped awning of Trattoria del Pescatore, a tiny family-run restaurant that looked older than time itself.
The smell hit her first: garlic sizzling in extra virgin oil, crushed tomatoes, Amalfi Coast lemons, and the salty slap of capers. Then, the interior swept into focus. The floors were made of hand-laid tiles, each one a sun-bleached swirl of turquoise and saffron. The walls were crowded with antique majolica plates from Deruta, and a heavy walnut credenza sat against the far wall, its drawers half open, stuffed with linen napkins.
A woman who was no taller than four-foot-nine, wearing a dusty blue linen apron, pointed up to a terribly steep flight of steps. “Di sopra.”
Harper knew very little Italian, but she assumed she was referring to where the cooking class was taking place. Today’s date involved a scialatielli al limone masterclass.
She nodded her thanks, took the flight of steps, ignored just how out of breath she was when she got to the top, and emerged on a private stone terrace. The view of the sparkly water was magnificent. Harper quickly snapped a shot before she focused on the two wooden tables standing parallel to each other. Each one contained bowls of fresh pasta dough dusted in semolina, eggs, piles of fresh basil and wild oregano, plates of cubed mozzarella, and a dish of briny capers. At one end of the terrace, standing on another table, this one smaller, were two portable gas burners and an arrangement of copper pots and pans.
Harper did a quick scan of the terrace. Camera operators had positioned themselves at the corners, out of sight. A woman with frizzy black hair, wearing a white double-breasted chef coat, was bent over one of the tables. Megan was standing with her back to Harper, looking at the view. Elise was nowhere tobe found. Harper was not surprised. Even less so when Gillian rounded one of the tables. Elise must’ve asked her to fill in for the day.
“Have you seen Jamie anywhere?” she asked, frowning, looking slightly panicked. She flourished her hand like she hoped she could magically make her reappear. “She was here a second ago. We really need to get started. Maria isn’t exactly patient. It doesn’t matter that we’ve paid her generously. She still wants us in and out before the dinner service starts.”
“I’ll go look for her,” Harper offered, glimpsing Megan out of the corner of her eye. She was now leaning against a table, a glass of wine in her hand, looking down at her feet. Every line of her body suggested she was in the middle of an internal monologue.
Had something happened between her and Jamie? Or with one of the other contestants?
It didn’t matter. It was none of Harper’s business.
Harper slipped back down the stairs, checked the small bathroom tucked beside the bar. Empty. Then she ducked into the tiny storeroom wedged beneath the staircase. Also empty. She ignored Maria staring at her and continued toward the back. There was a stone archway leading into a small courtyard. Harper stepped through it to a space barely bigger than her crew house bedroom. The stone floor was uneven and worn, and in the center stood two old trees with thick branches that offered more than enough shade.
Bingo.
Jamie was sitting on an upturned crate. She was holding an unlit cigarette in one hand, staring so intently at it that Harper wondered if she was trying to set fire to it herself.
“You know they’re looking for you,” Harper said, leaning against the archway. “They can’t start the date without you.”
Jamie barely flicked her gaze up to Harper before she went right back to staring at her hands.