Every Single Thing About You: A “Tuck Yes” Love Story - Book 3 by Hopkins, Faleena (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

don’t want to put her in that position. Or you. So I’m not making any promises with this trip. I’m just…giving it a try. But I didn’t want to go without your blessing. And I couldn’t ask for that unless I had Nax’s word that he could take care of you. Bennett’s got a lot on his plate right now. Plus, Nax is nicer anyway.”

Will grins through his tears, understanding that I’m giving Benny a hard time even though he’s not here. It’s our way, how our friendship has always been, the three of us.“Nax is nicer. But Bennett has dogs. He wins.”

“With a baby coming he’s not winning you this time.” Setting my son down I stand up. “You’re stuck with the nice guy and you can walk the dogs anytime. So you’re okay with this?”

Will nods. “Uh huh.”

“You wanna help me go book the most expensive flight of my life?”

“Yeah!” As we walk to my office, he asks, “Why the most expensive?”

“Without advance notice the tickets will cost me an arm and a leg.”

“But if she rejects you, Dad, it’ll cost everything.”

“Not everything.” Grabbing his head, I smile, “I’d still have you.”

Chapter 15

Nestled on the coast of Sorrento, Italy, is Villa Crawford, a home which originally belonged to the American author Francis Marion Crawford. There he created his own palace with buttresses that rise from the Bay of Naples in Medieval style, although he lived there in the late 1800’s. Francis left the estate to his family upon his passing in 1909. In the 1950’s his sons donated it to the church. It is still today run by nuns. You don’t have to be religious to book your stay, but you must abide their rules, mostly of quiet and early bedtimes — perfect for a week of relaxation, meditation, and reconnecting with ourselves.

My nine students have booked through me either single or double rooms — less cost for those who share — and it’s time to check in. I have waited for this moment my entire life and didn’t even know it.

The flight from New York was filled with me grinning my Tucking butt off. The ride on a bus from the international airport in Naples was the same for me and our happy group. We all marveled at the bravado of Italian drivers, especially the hundreds that ride scooters as their main transport, zipping between traffic coming from both directions. They do not care about the dotted line except to use it as an obstacle course.

And now that we’re here, my gaze drifts happily over carved wood that adorns the lobby walls, toward a room converted into a small cafe with only two round metal tables and a thin counter for its bar. Behind it is an espresso machine manned by an Italian whose smile feels effortless.

From him my gaze travels to a portrait of the author who used to live and write here, a silver placard bearing his name, and a smile on his face, too. I can understand why he looks so peaceful.

Joan informs me with a quiet voice, “We’re up,” as she watches a nun passing us.

Turning for the hotel desk, I notice the couple before us has already checked in and is walking toward an elevator to our right.

Checking in guests are two young women, both without makeup. The first teenager smiles, “Caio.”

Stepping up to check our group in, my sundress floats around my calves in the warm air, sandals adorned with anklets, hair long and free except for two small braids on either side pinned back by my temples. “Caio. I’m Tempest Tuck with the Yin Yang Yoga Retreat.”

The other teen glances up, “How many?” pen suspended above a ledger, dark eyes curious and open after having heard my American accent.

Placing my hands on the marble counter, I feel better than I have in years. “We are ten in total.”

She nods and they begin to talk in their native tongue, pointing to notes on the rooms we’ve paid for.

But a man’s voice from my right says, “Actually, we’re eleven in total.”

I frown at the correction and look to my right to see Josh wheeling in a suitcase, wearing dark grey jeans and a white sweater, black leather jacket thrown over his free arm, handsome face flushed, dark brown eyes bright as if I’d been waiting for him.

“Josh?” I whisper, not able to grasp what I’m looking at.

As if they’re old friends, Joan throws out her arms. “You came!”

His gaze flicks to her, and he nods, but lands back on me as he answers, “I needed to get away.” His confident stroll brings him to my side, our eyes locked. “This seemed like it might be the perfect solution.” Pulling himself from my confused gaze, Josh tells the already smitten teens, “I booked a separate room. A single, under Josh Arosio.”

She lights up at his surname. “You are Italian!”

“Third generation. Ashamed to admit I don’t speak it.” This gives them leave to giggle and say a few things we can’t understand.

Josh smiles. “But I can guess what that meant.”

This sends them into a fit of blushing and more giggling.

But Me?

I’m baffled!

Suddenly I remember this is my retreat, people are counting on me to start this off well. I’d better pull it together and fib a little. These girls aren’t the nuns — they’re locals earning a living — so it can’t be that bad to lie to them, “I didn’t expect Josh to be able to make it.” To him I force a smile, “So glad you changed your mind about joining us. What a nice surprise,” and return to them, agreeing, "We are eleven in total.”

Keys are passed out for double rooms shared and single rooms not. In struggling English we are informed that the elevator will take us upstairs or to the dining hall below.

Signing a contract I don’t even read, I hand back the pen, thanking them in Italian, “Grazie,” and turn to