Page 93 of Problematic Summer Romance

“I’ve seen him chase his own tail, eat his own barf, and growl at his own reflection. All in a span of ten minutes.”

“Okay, fine. His brain is pea-sized and we love him for it. But Rue has started to believe in curses, and she doesn’t have a wedding dress.”

Conor’s eyes flick down to my chest. “Maybe she can borrow your shirt?”

Shit. I’m still wearing the tripod. “And Eli’s busy trying to save his wedding from a volcanic eruption. The whole thing is falling apart. So I’d rather exhaust all avenues before I tell them that their dog, whom they love more than they love me, is missing.”

“They don’t love him more than—”

“It’s fine. I love him more than them, too. Hey, maybe they can help?” I point at the three bored-looking boys currently smoking cigarettes in the back of the villa. The grandsons, who must be on a break from being hounded by Lucrezia. “They’re always around. They may have seen him?”

Conor isn’t optimistic, but he indulges me. “Hi,” I say when we approach them.

The oldest, who must be around my age, glances at my legs and forgets to look away until Conor says something that has him muttering a low, “Scusa.”

They chat in Italian for a bit. Conor asks about acanewho’smolto grande(I’ll never order another latte without hearing his voice) and all the boys shake their heads. But right as my heart sinks into my stomach, Leg Boy takes out his phone to make a call. He then relays it to Conor, pointing in the direction of the beach.

“What did he say?”

“His cousin works as a bagnino on the public beach next to ours.”

“A what?”

“A lifeguard. He said that he saw a big mutt running on the shore a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh my god. Really? Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you. Conor, ask him for his phone number. I’m going to send him all the pictures of my legs his little heart desires—hey.” I tug at my wrist, but Conor is already dragging me away. “Hang on. We’re going in the wrong direction, the beach is—”

“We can’t just go to the beach and yell his name, Maya.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s miles long, and we have no idea where, or if, Tiny stopped.” He’s leading me toward something that looks like a shed, semi-hidden behind a few cypresses. His grip on my wrist slackens, and I…

I must be having an interesting day, because I let my hand slide down and close around his.

He must be having an interesting day, too. Because he allows it, and twines his fingers with mine.

My heart ricochets against my rib cage. “What’s the alternative? We still need to go to the beach.”

He opens the barn door. The inside is shaded, cool, scented with sawdust and oil.

“Is that a Vespa?” I gasp.

“Lambretta,” he corrects, easily mounting the motor scooter, which is painted the same blue as the sea. “Get on the back of the seat.”

“What?”

“There are tracks running parallel to the shore. This will be faster.”

I want to ask if he’s joking, but I know the answer. “This is very like that Audrey Hepburn movie whose name I forgot, but—”

“Roman Holiday.” He shakes his head and mutters something aboutdamn young people.

“Okay, Grandpa. First of all, that movie was shot in the fifties or sixties, so don’t act likeyoustood in line to see its midnight screening on opening day. Secondly”—I step into him with my most intimidating scowl—“can you even drive it?”

Instead of replying, he looks around. “Put on that helmet.”

“This?” It’s a round, giant monstrosity, covered in the Italian flag. When I stick my head inside, it feels no less heavy than societal expectations. “Why doIhave to put it on?”

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