The Price Of Us
I noted that little tidbit of information.
When he did finally glance up again, our eyes clashed. As usual, it was charged and electric but I was the one who looked away first.
"This is not a pleasure trip," I informed him. "You'll be writing down notes, organizing papers and most importantly, staying close. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," he replied meekly.
I tensed at the sir. I loathed how much I liked the way it sounded on his lips.
We arrived in the late afternoon, and the moment the doors swung open to the fresh salt air of the Amalfi Coast, something inside me clenched. This was home once. Now it just felt like a cemetery for things I no longer touched—memories, people, promises.
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