“What do you mean?” I all but whisper, not wanting to get my hopes up.
“I mean that you’re my future. You’ve taken over every part of me—my thoughts, my breath, even the space in my chest where my heart once lived. ‘Boyfriend’?” He shakes his head, eyes burning into mine. “That word feels too small. Too temporary. Like something high school kids whisper in hallways. What I feel for you is deeper. It’s permanent. It’sreal.So no, I’m not your boyfriend. I’m your man. And you’re my queen. Do you understand me?”
My heart pounds rapidly in my chest. A feeling blossoms low in my belly. It’s bright. Airy. And completely terrifying. I can do little more than nod. It seems to satisfy him.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and leans in to kiss me. It’s just a faint touch of his lips. There and gone in seconds. “Now, get that sexy ass out of my truck so I can show you off.”
* * *
The hotel doublesas an event center, often rented out by companies and people with more money than they know what to do with. We’re directed to a room on the first floor, one already humming with conversation and clinking glasses.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along one side, offering a view of the landscaped outdoor amenities and swaying trees. Inside, round tables draped in crisp white linens are arranged throughout the space, each adorned with elegant floral centerpieces. Along one wall, a group of waiters busily prepare trays of food, while others glide through the crowd to offer drinks. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, scattering soft, rainbow-like light across the polished floor. Classical music plays from somewhere in the room.
“What kind of party is this?” I ask once we’re inside. A server carrying glasses of what I hope is wine comes by and offers me one, which I take. César takes one, too, but doesn’t seem impressed by it as he scans the crowd.
“A celebratory party for one of my old friends. He just opened this hotel less than a month ago. Now he’s ready to show it off,” he answers before taking a sip of the wine. He makes a sour face, placing the glass down on an empty table.
“I’ll take that,” I say and scoop it up. Double-fisting two glasses of wine is pretty on-brand for me. But for ease, I pour the rest of his drink into mine before taking a sip. “It’s not bad.”
“It’s also not great.”
He has a point there, but wine is wine. I’ve survived off worse.
César places a hand on my back, guiding me deeper into the room. As I glance around at the guests, I’m relieved to see that my outfit fits right in. César is dressed in a black suit, expertly tailored to his frame. His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the top, revealing just a hint of the sculpted chest I know lies beneath. The other men wear suits, too, but César doesn’t just wear his. He owns it.
“Are you hungry?” he asks me, head swiveling around the room as if he’s looking for someone.
Before I can answer, a deep, masculine voice comes from behind us. “César, who let your ugly ass in?”
I turn just in time to see a man approaching us. He’s tall—easily César’s height—with a powerful build that fills out his tailored black suit. The fabric clings to his arms and shoulders, emphasizing a broad chest and the kind of physique that suggests both discipline and strength. His beard is neatly trimmed, framing a sharp jawline, and his jet-black hair is cropped short, every strand perfectly in place. There’s an effortless elegance about him, like he could’ve just stepped off a runway or out of a high-end fashion spread.
He’s not alone, though. A beautiful and petite woman hangs on his arm, and although she’s smiling—her pretty red lips the same shade as my own—it doesn’t meet her eyes. The way the two of them walk together is also awkward, more like they are putting on a show rather than a real couple.
César drops his hand from my back, going over to give the stranger one of those weird hugs men give where they slap each other’s back and squeeze their hand in a death grip. “I know damn well you ain’t calling me ugly, fool.”
Neither of these men are ugly. Not even close. Even the way they laugh is handsome.
The two break away, and the man’s gaze falls to me, quickly sweeping over my body before backing up. His face is unreadable, schooled like a politician, and yet somehow kind. “And what poor woman did you force to accompany you?”
The wine encourages me to move forward and offer my hand. “I’m Lety Zavala. I came here willingly, don’t worry.”
The man laughs and extends his large hand to take mine, gently shaking it. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Zavala. Even if you have the misfortune of coming with César.”
The man in question rolls his eyes before wrapping his arm around me, pulling me back to the side. I can’t help but notice the side eye the woman gives me as she takes in the two of us. I do my best to ignore it for now.
“Lety, this is Augustín Cisneros and his wife, Carmen,” César introduces.
“We’ve never seen you before,” Carmen says by way of greeting. “How did the two of you meet?” Innocent enough question, but it feels loaded coming from her.
I also don’t know how to answer. It’s not exactly taboo that I’m dating my boss, but it’s not entirely proper, either. We should have discussed this first, and I’m mentally kicking myself for not thinking about this sooner.
“Lety and I have worked together for a while now,” César says, voice confident, with none of the hesitation tightening my chest.
Carmen hums, arching one perfectly drawn brow. She taps her manicured nail against the rim of her champagne glass. “Workplace romance. Bold.”
Her words aren’t rude, but something about her tone cuts deeper than I expect. Is this going to be the normal reaction when people hear about César and me? If so, I better get used to it. I manage a small smile and glance away, sipping the wine that suddenly tastes a little sour.
César doesn’t seem fazed. “Bold is one word. I call it inevitable.”
