Pepper, the German Shepherd who came with the property, lopes toward me. She’s so old, she can barely see, but she’s usually good about barking at strangers.
“She’s quite the guard dog,” Sergio comments, probably aware why I called her.
“Her sense of smell must be off if she likes you.”
I catch his smile when I glance behind me.
“Living room,” I say, pointing out the obvious. I love this house, love the charm, the creaks and even the ghosts I imagine on dark nights, but it is small and Sergio makes it look that much smaller.
“This is great,” he says, touching the bookshelf, obviously appreciating the old wood and antiques. “How old is the house?”
I tell him, just talk to him like he’s not who he is. Like last night didn’t happen. It’s awkward, but I try to ignore it. It’ll be over soon. Coffee and a tour. He’ll be gone in fifteen minutes.
He follows me through the living room, and I point out the bathroom downstairs before climbing the narrow staircase upto the second floor. Pepper stays at the bottom of the stairs watching us.
“She’s too old to climb anymore,” I say.
He nods. “Low ceilings.” He has to duck his head.
“It’s got more space than you’d think,” I say, pointing out the two bedrooms. “This one’s mine.” I open the door to my messy room, walk in ahead of him and kick some clothes under the bed, close the dresser drawer that’s still open and turn to him. He’s checking out the fireplace.
“Can you use this?”
“I think so. I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to burn down the neighborhood. You could say I’m accident prone.” As if to demonstrate, I trip over a shoe on the floor.
“You’re messy. That’s why you’re accident prone.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
He stands there watching me, and I see the shadow behind that light-hearted, entertained look on his face, in his eyes. He’s dark. At his core, no matter how he tries to mask it on the surface, there’s a darkness to him.
I shudder. Tell myself I have to remember this.
“I know you from somewhere,” he says. Does he remember that convenience store robbery?
“Is that the real reason you’re here?” I ask. I know he isn’t interested in a tour or coffee.
Before he can respond, I hear the buzzing of a cell phone announcing a message. Sergio reaches into his pocket, reads the screen. He types something back then returns his gaze to me. His eyes, last night I’d thought they were black, but I see now they’re midnight blue with specks of gold in them. Like stars. Like a clear night sky with stars.
I take a deep breath in. He’s so close I can smell his aftershave.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Do I?” he asks.
He’s studying me and my heart is racing. I wonder if he can hear it. But then he’s reading another message. He’s preoccupied. His phone buzzes a third time. After reading that message, he mutters a curse under his breath. Texts something. Pushes his suit jacket back to tuck his hand into his pants pocket.
That’s when I see something glint, shiny and black in its holster under his arm.
“Do you have a gun with you?”
He doesn’t reply, just narrows one eye, weighing how to answer my question perhaps. Or trying to steal my memory, to know why he feels a familiarity.
“Did you bring a gun into my house?” I ask again.
