By the time she’d checked out, they had her luggage loaded, and everything strapped in with bungee cords out of Riley’s duffle.
Sasha eyed them doubtfully, thought of her painting supplies. “Will those really hold?”
“Haven’t let me down yet. Kick-ass villa, here we come.”
Riley roared off just as she had that morning. This time, Bran shared the backseat with luggage.
“You should have the front.” Sasha swiveled around. “I didn’t think of it. I’m smaller than you, and wouldn’t be as crowded.”
“Oh, we’re fine here, me and your paintbrushes. And the way Riley drives, we’ll be there long before my legs have time to cramp.”
The speed—outrageous—seemed slightly more exhilarating than frightening this time. Sasha took in the blur of sea and flowers, cars, sun-washed buildings while she half listened to Riley and Bran debate whether to stop somewhere for lunch or just get where they were going.
She didn’t care either way. It was all so surreal, and reckless. Prior, the most reckless thing she could remember doing had been hacking off her hair when she’d been twelve. An act of anger and defiance she’d regretted before the last snip of the scissors.
Clearly, this reckless act carried more risk and weight—and yet, just at the moment, it felt absolutely right.
She’d unpack first, she decided. She wouldn’t feel settled until she did. And then she’d set up her easel . . . maybe outside, try a chalk study of the gardens. Or try a watercolor. She rarely used that medium, but—
“What’s your vote?” Riley demanded.
“Sorry, what?”
“Food or destination? You’re the tie breaker.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”
“Tie breaker,” Riley insisted. “It has to matter. Bran’s for getting there. I’m for food.”
“I don’t want to be the tie breaker.”
“You’re stuck with it. He’s all ‘there’s food in the villa’—the caretakers had it stocked and we’ve got the green light to use what we want, but we have to get there, then throw something together. Can anybody cook?”
“Of course I can cook,” Sasha began, and immediately saw her mistake. “I’m absolutely not going to be in charge of the kitchen.”
A big, beautiful kitchen, she remembered, and she wouldn’t mind making a meal or two, but—
“Somebody has to be. If you want something fried up on a Coleman stove, I’m your girl, otherwise, I’m sandwiches and stirring. I can stir. And chop,” she added. “I’m hell on chopping.”
“I don’t know how to cook for people.”
“What do you cook for?” Bran wondered. “Bears?”
“Myself. But—”
“I’m not bad at breakfast.” Bran rolled right over her objections. “But I doubt anyone’s up for a full fry every meal. Sidari’s not far, for going out to eat, but if we’re wanting more privacy to discuss our business, a home-cooked seems the thing.”
“Sasha’s definitely elected. Popular vote.”
“I abstain.” Honestly, she felt a tickle of panic in her throat at being voted in charge of anything. “Or abdicate.”
Miles flew by as they argued about it, and as Sasha began to see herself in a losing battle.
“We’re definitely stopping for lunch—tie broken—and if anyone’s hungry tonight, they can eat one of Riley’s famous sandwiches.”
“My specialty.”
“I’ll cook something tomorrow night after I’ve had time to think about it, but after that . . .”
She trailed off, struck by the sight of a hitchhiker, brim of his ball cap tipped down, his thumb cocked out.
“We still have to eat after that,” Riley said. “I get cranky when I’m hungry, and you don’t want me—”
“Stop!” She’d only glimpsed his face as they’d passed, but it was enough. “Stop the car!”
Riley reacted quickly, hit the brakes. “What’s the deal?” she demanded as she swerved to the side of the road.
“Back up. The hitchhiker. Turn around or back up. The hitchhiker.”
“Oh, yeah.” Riley tipped down her sunglasses, aimed a look as sarcastic as her tone. “We’ve got plenty of room for one more.”
Sasha pushed out of the jeep. “He is one more. Of us.”
“No shit?”
Bran boosted out of the jeep as Sasha took a step down the shoulder. “Just let’s hold here a minute then, darling. He’s coming to us. Let’s gauge our ground first.”