Page 55 of Love Lessons
“I do!” Drake raises a wet hand. “I need Charli to buy the skimpiest Italian lingerie in Milan and then model it for me later.”
“Sure, stud,” Charli says. “Just as long as you’ll wear a matching set.”
We all hoot and laugh and generally act like bozos, until the women take their leave. And then we ravage the sandwich cart and spread out on lounge chairs on the terrace, while Drake streams some tunes through his sweet outdoor speakers.
“This is the life,” Anton says. “Can somebody rub sunscreen on my back?”
“All right,” Neil agrees. “If you’ll do me.”
I let out a half-assed cat call, but my heart isn’t in it. The Italian sunshine is making me sleepy.
The afternoon passes in a pleasant haze, until I rouse myself to make espressos for my crew. I’m just finishing my own cup when my phone rings. It’s O’Doul, and his name on the screen gives me a whiff of anxiety.
What now?More pressure from management?
I answer the call. “Hey, Doulie.”
“Hey, man. How’s Italy?”
My mind serves up an image of Vera’s O-face. “It’s everything I needed in this life.”
“Glad to hear that.” He chuckles. “You staying out of trouble?”
My heart drops. “Of course I am. Why? Is Hugh asking?”
“No, man. I was just teasing you. Everything is fine from where I sit. Did you see your photo on the internet this morning?”
“What?” I set my coffee cup down on the lunch tray. “What photo?”
He laughs. “Is Drake with you? Tell him to check his texts. This is hilarious.”
I call over to my teammate, asking him to check his messages. “Is there really a photo of me? From Italy?”
“Yes and no,” O’Doul says, amusement in his voice.
A moment later I hear Neil let out a bark of laughter. And then he’s crossing the patio to thrust his phone in my face. “Check us out.”
The photo is on an Italian site. From the garish font, I assume it’s a gossip blog. And thereisa photo of me. Although, I shouldn’t have worried. I’m not holding a drink or anything, I’m merely smiling at Neil. We both look debonaire in our dress shirts. We’re stepping off the water taxi onto the dock. And my new short haircut keeps me looking sharp in spite of the wind off the lake.
Vera is at my arm, looking sophisticated in her dress, and I’m holding out a gentlemanly arm to help her off the boat. “Okay. That photo is fine. What’s so funny?”
“Read the caption.”
“It’s in Italian,” I argue.
But it doesn’t matter. The names listed there are easy enough to make out.Neil Drake,Jason Castro, and the name of our team.
“Wait, they got my name wrong?” I yelp.
“They sure did,” O’Doul says. “Too bad, because you look very civilized, sir. Way to represent.”
I let out a groan of frustration. “So if the PR guy googles my name, he’ll still find my mugshot. And not this picture of me helping a lady off a boat.”
“Right.” O’Doul laughs. “Sorry, Crikey. You have the worst luck.”
“Tell me about it.” I give Neil his phone back with a sigh.
“I told you I was going to call so we could talk about the captain. Remember?”
