Ay, Dios mío.
Without hesitation, I wrap him in my arms. His forehead drops against my shoulder, and I feel the wet warmth of his tears soaking through my shirt. His candor is endearing. Emotions so raw; I swear I can feel them being shucked straight from his soul.
I close my eyes.
Casual hookups have never been my thing. Not before Gabriel. Not after.
And Alex needs to know—whateverthisis… it might look like a fling, might evenfeellike one in flashes of heat and confusion.
But it’s not.
I’m drawn to him. In the same way I’ve only ever been drawn to one other person—my husband.
Slowly, Alex pulls back. His hands fumble for something on the table.
When I see the picture frame in his grip, my heart sinks.
I already know which one it is.
Gabriel placed it there years ago. And it’s never moved.
It’s a photo of a younger me, content and carefree. Before life had a chance to stain me.
Ana’s in it too, maybe five years old, nestled safely between us.
And, of course… Gabriel.
My husband.
Stillmy husband.
“Is this your ex-husband?” Alex asks quietly, his eyes lingering on the wedding bands looped around our fingers—our daughter cradled between us—the picture of a perfect little family.
Jesus.
How the hell do I answer that?
I’ve never been good at lying, even when I want to. And right now, there’s one sitting heavily on the tip of my tongue.
“That’s Ana’s dad,” I say instead, nodding.
An answer—just not a direct one.
The truth is, Gabriel and I have been married sixteen years. I was twenty-six when we met; he was twenty-four. We were both boarding a flight to Puerto Rico—me to visit my parents, him to visit… another man.
Gabriel’s originally from Spain. He moved to the United States at eighteen to pursue a career in art.
He was the epitome of a sex god. Shoulder-length, wavy brown hair, olive-toned skin, gray eyes, and a smile that practically invited temptation. He looked like he’d stepped straight off the cover of a romance novel.
And as luck would have it, a last-minute seating mishap bumped me to first class and landed me a seat right beside his. By the time we landed, a short four hours later, we shirked our original plans and ventured out, hand in hand, into the heart of the island, chasing something that felt suspiciously like destiny.
“You have a beautiful family,” Alex murmurs, dragging the pad of his thumb across my husband’s face in the photo. “He looks familiar.”
I glance at my husband’s image, a soft pride blooming in my chest. “His name is Gabriel. He’s an artist—well, technically, an interior designer. Maybe you’ve seen his work?” I try to keep the excitement out of my voice, but it slips in anyway. “His projectsget featured a lot in high-end design magazines. I think the term they like to use is ‘erotically creative,’” I add, a crooked smile tugging at my cheeks.
I gently take the frame from his hands and set it back down on the table.
“Our marriage fell apart five years ago,” I admit quietly. “But he’s still a huge part of Ana’s life. And mine.”
