19
ROMI
“Did you fill this with rocks?” Colt asked as he hefted my fifth suitcase onto a luggage cart.
“I just bought a few bits and pieces in the boutique.” Including a rather lovely driftwood sculpture that would look fabulous in Davis’s Florida beach house. Made by none other than Deck, whose talents were wasted in Baldwin’s Shore. His pieces would sell for a fortune in a New York gallery. “It’s important to support the local economy.”
“How did you ever manage to go backpacking? Did you rent a Sherpa?”
Packing to go to Europe had been the hardest challenge of my life. I’d folded, rolled, and crammed everything into one giant rucksack, then nearly collapsed when I tried to pick it up. But no way was I leaving that fourth pair of shoes behind. Or my hair straighteners. Or the six pac
