Scot Harvath’s six-month honeymoon had been amazing. He and Sølvi had traveled the world and had spared no expense.

Upon landing back in the U.S., he’d introduced her to his favorite ritual. Once they had cleared passport control and customs, he’d sought out the best cheeseburger and coldest beer he could find. It was good to be home.

Despite the length of their trip, it now all felt like a blur. After getting married in Oslo, they’d spent a week on the fjord; a “mini-moon” as Sølvi had called it, before buttoning up her apartment and putting in to take an open-ended leave of absence from the Norwegian Intelligence Service.

With those boxes ticked, they celebrated an early Christmas with her family and then hopped a flight back to the States. There, they attended the christening of their goddaughter, celebrated Christmas with friends, and passed a few days as Scot tied up some of his own loose ends.

He had wanted to make a clean break with his past, which meant officially resigning from the Carlton Group—the private intelligence agency he had worked for. Once that was complete, they were free.

After visiting his aging mother on the West Coast, they booked a flight to New Zealand and spent their new year chasing the sun and warm temperatures across the Southern Hemisphere.

In the spring, they headed north to Singapore, Malaysia, and Thailand before dropping in on Scot’s friends in India.

From there, they traveled to Greece, where they rented a beautiful villa with an uninterrupted view of the sea and swam in the clearest, bluest water either of them had ever seen. On many nights, after multiple glasses of wine, there was talk of never leaving, of making this their new permanent home.

But despite how much they enjoyed the island lifestyle, they eventually grew restless and wanted to get back on the road.

CONTINUE READING