Chapter 4
Mallory
It wasn'tthe way I would've chosen to meet Hugo, if given the choice.
I was sitting at the table, minding my own business in the quiet shop, when he breezed in. He didn't notice me, not at first. It was all I could do to hold back my gasp as my eyes swept over him. Possibilities buzzed through me, but in the end, it washewho approachedme.
I should have been upfront in the beginning, I know that. Something kept me from total honesty. I'm not sure yet what it was, only that I didn't want to show him my hand. It wasn't fair because he wasn't aware of who he was playing against, but some cards I need to keep close to my chest.
More than likely, I have ruined any chance of ever gaining Hugo's trust, at least enough for him to talk to me about his dad. I'm disappointed in myself, and in the situation as a whole.
Having very possibly just signed the death certificateon all the work I've been doing for years, I force myself through the small restaurant. I feel the gazes of the men and women who walked in, and Margaret, the lovely owner who introduced herself to me.
The relentless sun assails my eyes as I step from Sammich. Tenting my hand across my eyebrows, I—Hugo?
The man I have probably pissed off for life stands on the edge of the sidewalk in front of me. His eyebrows cinch with his angry stare, his jaw taut. His arms cross in front of his chest, his weight rolling back on his heels.
God was very, very heavy-handed when He created this man's physical attributes. From his head of thick, shiny brown-black hair to his olive skin and arched eyebrows, forearms roped with muscle, and shoulders a woman could hold onto, there's a lot to look at. Don't let me get started on that angular jawline. He must have some physical abnormality to make up for the unfair generosity. Six fingers, perhaps?
I already know he doesn't. I've spent plenty of time learning about him on the Internet, poking through photos of him fencing, standing on the podium at the Olympics, accepting his gold medal. I came to Olive Township knowing exactly what Hugo De la Vega looks like.
Hugo's eyebrows are raised, like he's waiting for me to say something. Only, I don't know what to say. How can I make this any better? Angry doesn't begin to describe him. Anger's second cousin, hurt feelings, has joined ourtwosome. And quite possibly embarrassment, a third cousin twice removed.
Not that I blame the guy. What was I thinking, letting him talk to me like that? Letting him think I was available? It's just that, well, he's so handsome it makes my stomach turn in on itself. It actually hurts to look at him.
And yet.
Nothing could've prepared me for the real thing. Because he's nothing like the photos. The Hugo I met today is warm. Genuine. Modest. Funny. He became a real person to me in a way the photos hadn't allowed him to be.
And yes, I feel guilty.
And ok, he's insanely attractive. I didn't know I had a thing for men in dirty work clothes with tools tucked into a great pair of ass-hugging jeans.
New kink unlocked. Or maybe just pregnancy hormones.
Sweet relief sweeps through me. Yes, that's how I feel. Not attracted to him, and that great smile with one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. It's the pesky cascade of extra hormones wreaking havoc.
Hugo leans back, his backside coming to rest on the front of a white truck. His, I presume.
Now that I don't have to worry about him seeing my (admittedly small) baby bump, I haul my purse higher around my shoulder and stand up straight. His gaze remains locked on mine.
Excitement bubbles. He might be mad, but does hewant to talk? Might this be the moment where I finally get to tell him everything I've been trying to say? Stowing my eagerness, I say as calmly as possible, "Would you like to talk?"
"Not even a little." His voice is cold, and his eyes are cool.
"Did you wait for me to come out just so you can tell me what an awful person I am?"
"Awful?" He scrunches one eyebrow, scratching at it with his thumb. "That depends. Does pretending to flirt with somebody just so you can satisfy your personal curiosity make you an awful person?"
I open my mouth to respond, but he continues.
"Or, does traveling to a small town and interrupting somebody's peace, after they've given you no indication you are welcome, make you an awful person?"
I look down at my cute low-heeled boots. Heat burns at the backs of my eyes. My vision blurs.
No no no no no.
I've never been a crier, but this pregnancy has turned me into an unreliable, manic faucet. I cry at nothing. I cry at everything. I cry at puppies. Not puppies being hurt, or uncared for, or malnourished, because that might actually make sense. Puppies simply existing is enough to send little balls of salted water rolling down my cheeks.
