At least the American reporter girl drove an Italian car. She had that going for her. Otherwise, I was growing more annoyed with Skylar by the moment.

I watched her walk out of the newspaper building and into a café down the street. The girl's style was all wrong. Black high heels were for nighttime, not hot summer days. Her dress was too plain, and she needed better jewelry. I sniffed with distaste as I saw her emerge from the café with a big plastic cup.

When the girl pulled out of her parking space in front of the newsroom, I followed in my rental car at a safe distance.

She drove into a parking lot, and I hung back and watched her get out of the car and walk toward the adjacent building, pausing near a giant plant to take a call. I watched her grin and laugh flirtatiously while chatting, and I wondered if it was Luca on the other end.

Probably, since she twirled her hair with her finger and looked upwards, coyly.

Making matters worse, Skylar had great hair. Long, thick, and effortlessly wavy. This made me hate her more.

Bile rose in my throat as I watched her grin. Her cheeks flushed pink, as if she was giddy.

This was not good.

____