Page 96 of The Slug Crystal
The words send a shiver through me that has nothing to do with turbulence and everything to do with possibility.
Below us, Milan sprawls into view, our destination and all its complications waiting. But for these few minutes of clear air and blue sky, I allow myself to enjoy the simple pleasure of flying with a handsome, capable man who looks at me like I'm the most interesting view from his cockpit.
22HITTING A WALL AGAIN
Wednesday,5:17PM. The Milan hotel lobby gleams with chrome and glass. It’s so aggressively modern that it makes my eyes hurt after the rustic charm of Luca's uncle's villa. Marble floors reflect the overhead lighting like still water reflecting the sun, while staff in crisp black uniforms move with practiced efficiency.
We're barely through check-in when Jake announces he's found an address for the crystal shop Marco identified, his practical nature immediately pushing us toward action despite our travel fatigue.
"It closes in two hours," he says, already pocketing the room key card he's just been handed. "If we leave now, we can make it before they shut down for the night."
Marco nods in agreement, tablet already displaying the fastest route from our hotel. "The proprietor might have valuable information about Sarah's suppliers or contacts in the city."
"I'll come with you," Ben volunteers, surprising me with his eagerness. "Three sets of eyes are better than two."
Jake glances at me, then at Alex's terrarium, which Luca iscarrying in its special case. "Emma, you look exhausted. Maybe you should rest after that flight."
"I can stay with her," Luca offers smoothly. "Make sure our blue friend gets settled in properly."
The suggestion hangs in the air, loaded with potential meaning. I catch Ben's narrowed eyes, Marco's carefully neutral expression, and Jake's barely perceptible frown. We didn’t entirely finish discussing the rules at dinner, and it’s clear there are still unresolved feelings about the situation. The implications of being alone with Luca, or any of the men, aren't easily misconstrued at this point.
"That makes sense," I say finally, exhaustion not entirely a pretense. The adrenaline from our turbulent flight is beginning to ebb, leaving me shaky and overwrought. "I could use a shower and some downtime."
Jake hesitates, then nods. "We'll call if we find anything significant. Otherwise, we'll meet in the lobby to find somewhere for dinner at eight?"
“Okay, I’ll see you soon,” I say. I hesitate awkwardly, then give each of the men a quick hug before stepping away.
As the others depart, Luca and I ride the elevator in charged silence. Our room, we're apparently sharing, though I don't recall that detail being discussed, is on the twenty-fifth floor.
Once inside, we’re greeted with floor-to-ceiling windows behind a lush seating area, offering a vertigo-inducing view of Milan. Mopeds buzz through the streets far below like mechanical insects, their paths forming chaotic patterns that somehow never collide. The early evening sun catches on glass skyscrapers, turning them into pillars of fire against the deepening blue sky.
There are three additional doors leading off the room we’ve entered. Luca opens the one furthest to the left, ushering me inside. There are two beds, another wall ofwindows, and an additional adjacent door to the bathroom. We’ve gotten a suite, and a rather nice one at that.
"Not bad," Luca observes, dropping his bag on one of the two queen beds. "My cousin knows the manager. Got us an upgrade."
I want to ask about his family connections. Is it only his parents that he isn’t close to anymore after choosing to be a pilot? It sure seems like it. I’m too exhausted to find a way to ask tactfully, especially after everything Luca has done for us to make this trip so seamless. So, instead of saying anything, I allow my eyes to scan across the room.
It’s as aggressively modern as the lobby. All clean lines and minimalist furniture in shades of gray and white. The bathroom door stands ajar, revealing a shower enclosure with multiple jets and a deep soaking tub that looks like it was carved from a single block of marble.
Luca sets Alex's terrarium on the desk by the window, ensuring he has a view but isn't in direct sunlight. The blue snail immediately begins exploring his enclosure, seemingly unaffected by our turbulent journey. I envy his simplicity, his ability to adapt to any environment without the emotional complications that plague humans.
"He's remarkably resilient, as Marco likes to say," Luca observes, coming to stand beside me. "Must be strange for you, caring for him like this."
"Everything about this situation is strange," I admit, still finally feeling the lingering tremors of adrenaline from our flight leave my body. The residual energy, and my nerves still firing as if preparing for danger that's already passed, slowly slips away and becomes a bone-deep fatigue.
Luca studies me, his expression more perceptive than his playboy persona usually allows. "You're still shaken from the turbulence."
"I'm fine," I insist, though my hands betray me with a slight tremor.
"Adrenaline crash," he diagnoses with the confidence of experience. "I'm going to shower first, then you can take your time. You'll feel better once you've washed off the travel."
Before I can respond, he's grabbing clothes from his bag and disappearing into the bathroom. The shower turns on, steam beginning to curl under the door almost immediately. I sink onto the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of every ache in my body from being tensed during the flight. I knead my own shoulder, rolling it back and forth to release some of the strain.
I become distracted slightly by the view; from our high perch, it is mesmerizing. Milan spreads out in all directions, with ancient church spires juxtaposed against modern architecture, and the whole city appearing to pulse with life and possibility.
I'm still staring at the view when the bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam along with Luca. He's wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to his abs, chest, and shoulders. The clothes he grabbed from his bag are clutched in his hand, and his dark hair is slicked back from his face, emphasizing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw.
"All yours," he says, gesturing toward the bathroom. Then, noticing my expression, he adds with a hint of his usual cockiness, "Unless you'd prefer to keep looking?"
