“Ya going to call her?” Rowen sets the last of the washed beer-tap grates back. The pub is ready for a new day.

“Tomorrow.” I flex my right hand, my knuckles sore after leaving Benoit with a few marks to remind him what will happen if he ever steps foot inside here again. Rowen’s warning hung in the back of my mind, though, keeping me from going overboard. “It’s one o’clock in the morning. She’ll be sound asleep.” I’m not entirely sure that’s true, after what she’s been through these past few days. I could have called her as soon as I found it, put her mind to rest.

Only, my mind was busying deciding how I want to use this opportunity. If I want to use this opportunity.

“I bet she’ll be grateful. Even for an American princess.” Rowen doesn’t have to explain where he’s going with this; the smirk on his face tells me. He assumes I’ve got plans to bang her, if I haven’t already. Though he’d know if I had. For Christ’s sake, we’re practically attached at the hip. We live and work together, and when we’re not at home or at the pub, we’re usually texting or talking on the phone.

“It’s not like that,” I mutter, pulling out the various slips of paper tucked into the little pockets. Mostly receipts. A taxi from the airport, a large latte with extra sugar. A scone and tea from a place on Grafton Street earlier today. Not surprising, seeing as she’s a tourist. Though there are better, less expensive places than that to go.

I unfold a sheet of lined paper, filled with feminine writing.

My eyebrows spike with the first line.

1. Have torrid affair with a foreigner. Country: TBD.

“What is it?” Rowen watches me from behind a sip of his closing-time pint.

“Nothing.” It’s something, alright. I’m guessing it involves getting laid. I need to look torrid up in the dictionary. I scan the piece of paper. It’s some sort of “to-do” list. She must have a dozen different countries mentioned here.

14. Do NOT get eaten by a lion. The Serengeti, Tanzania.

“Liar,” Rowen mutters when I start to chuckle. He leans forward and I shift farther back. I’m guessing this isn’t something Amber wants anyone reading.

24. Spend a day on a nude beach: Athens, Greece.

Christ. Blood starts flowing to my cock with the mental image of those legs attached to a naked body, sprawled out in the sand. Maybe she isn’t such a princess after all.

I quickly scan over the rest. A few of them are already marked with little checks, including the last one, clearly a recent addition, about the bomb in the Green. Yeah, I’ll bet she never forgets that day as long as she lives.

I note that number one isn’t marked off. That makes me smile. And wonder.

And hope.

Rowen hits the lights and throws me into darkness. “Come on, it’s fucking late. I’m setting the alarm.”

Downing the last of my own pint, I fold the page and stick it in my pocket.

Maybe all her memories involving me don’t have to be bad.

EIGHT

Amber

The shrill ring of my phone wakes me from a dead sleep. I simply stare at it lying on the nightstand for a long moment, trying to figure out who it could be, seeing as my family is eight hours behind and asleep. Do I even have the brainpower required to speak, after a night of tossing and turning with that sick burn in my stomach over my wallet?

In the end, I reach for it. A groggy “hello” escapes.

“Still sleeping, are ya?”

My eyes spring open at that deep male voice, laced with a light Irish accent, that I somehow can’t mistake. “River? Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

My heart begins racing. “Hey! How are you?” I sound way too eager.

“Tired. I didn’t get to bed until close to three.”

“What time is . . .” I glance at the clock to see that it’s only ten a.m. “Why are you awake, then?”

“Too many things to do before work tonight.” I can hear a smile in his voice. “Like tell you that I have your wallet.”

My covers tumble away as I sit up, relief making me heave an obnoxious groan. “You’re joking!”

“I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

“But . . . how? Did someone turn it in?”

There’s a short pause. “It was in with the rubbish.”

Tossed. Just like Jesse said it would be. Whatever. It’s found. Empty of cash, I’m sure. “Is my license there, at least?”

“It is, Miss Amber Mae Welles from Oregon.”

My cheeks flush, knowing he’s been looking at my information, my picture. “Great. I’ll get dressed and come to the bar at noon, if you’re open by then?”

“We are.” There’s a pause. “I have a better idea, though.”

“Haunting, isn’t it?”

My breath hitches with surprise as I spin around to find River standing behind me with two Starbucks cups in his hands, his smile reaching his eyes. “They’re . . . incredible,” I say.

His sneakers scrape against the cobblestones beneath us as he closes the distance, his threadbare navy T-shirt damp from the off-and-on drizzle falling, the strands of wet hair pushed back in a careless way.

He’s even more attractive than I remember.

My heart skips a few beats when he thrusts a cup forward, the crisp white paper highlighting his red, scraped knuckles. They weren’t like that yesterday. I know because I got a good look at his hands when I was checking for a wedding band.

“Latte, with sugar.”

I frown.

“You keep your receipts.”

“Right. I do that.” I like to keep track of my spending. Heat climbs up my neck. That means he went through my entire wallet. And he must have seen that stupid list. While that doesn’t make me feel as violated as having the asshole who stole my wallet see it, it still stirs a feeling of vulnerability. River may have saved my life, but I don’t know anything about him. And now he knows me down to my home address and weight, and he probably thinks that I’m shopping for a movie-style fling on this trip.

Did he actually read it? What would have gone through his head when he saw number one?

I push the thought aside. “Thank you.” I accept the cup and our fingertips graze, sending a warm current through me.

“Here.” His hand dips into the back pocket of his jeans and reappears with my wallet.

A bubble of relief bursts as I reach for it, followed by another small thrill as his fingertips graze mine again. “God! Thank you! This is . . . you have no idea . . .” I expected it to be flimsy, the money all gone, but it has weight to it. When I open it and find the stack of colorful bills, I feel the deep furrow between my eyes form, the one that my mother warns me is going to leave a deep wrinkle by the time I’m thirty-five if I don’t stop frowning. “But, how . . .”

“Our security cameras caught it all. The muppet was still in the pub, so I had words with him.”

River said that he found it in the “rubbish”—their word for trash. “Muppet” or not, there’s no way the thief threw it out with the cash, so . . . “He gave all my money back?”

“With his deepest apologies.” River’s right hand balls up into a fist before stretching out next to his thigh. And I suddenly understand why his knuckles are all bruised.