“I should not impose on you. Perhaps…if you have a flashlight, you could come next door and check that my apartment is…empty?” The hope tinging her tone does something to my heart I don’t understand—or like. I want to take care of her—though I don’t think she’s a woman who lets anyone do that.
“I can’t eat all six slices of pizza myself, and I’m sure as shit not going to open the fridge again until the power’s back on. You can hang out here for a while, and if Premier Power doesn’t have an update in two hours, I’ll walk you next door and clear the apartment for you.”
What the hell are you doing? Letting someone you don’t know “hang out”? Someone who works for the Panamanian government? You’re going to have to talk. Get to know one another. You’re just asking to be deported.
Despite knowing this is a bad idea of epic proportions, there’s something about Domina that calls to me. In rare moments, she’s vulnerable in a way it’s obvious she hates. Then, the next, she’s all business. Totally capable, unable of lettinganyonecome to her aid.
I want—no, Ineed—to figure her out, and this might be my only chance to do it.
Handing her the mug of tea, I wait for her to take a tentative sip.
“All right. I will help you finish your pizza. As long as you share at least one of the Huevos de Leche with me.” Her smile does what no candle ever could. Lights up the room like the sun. So much so, I’m surprised a clap of thunder doesn’t immediately follow.
Shit.
This woman is trouble—according to my former employer—and I don’t give a fuck. I want to get to know her anyway.
I hope to all that’s holy, I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life.
CHAPTER FIVE
Domina
I should not be here.But Leo has candles burning, and the apartment is lit by a warm, flickering glow as the storm rages outside.
If I leave, I will be alone, and while I do have candles—they are a must for October and November—I do not have a way to make hot tea. Or anyone to talk to.
He hands me a plate of pizza and a napkin, then nods at the couch. “I’ll be right there. Unless you want to eat at the table.”
“I do not evenhavea table. Only the breakfast bar,” I admit with a small smile.
“You don’t…entertain? Have guys—people—over?” He turns away to retrieve his own plate and mutters, “Shit. Way to be rude, Leo.”
My cheeks flush hot, and I stare down at the cold slices of pepperoni and pineapple pizza. “I do not date.”
He eases himself down on the other end of the couch with a wince. As far from me as possible. “At all?”
I take a quick bite of pizza to give myself a moment to decide how to answer him. It’s surprisingly good. “I never thought I would enjoy pineapple on pizza,” I say with a little chuckle.
“It’s gotta be done right. Palermo’s is the only place I trust. They use fresh pineapple, a jalapeño glaze, and thick-cut, spicy ham.” After he settles back against the cushions, he casts a glance in my direction. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Even in the low light, the intensity in his eyes unnerves me. “I work more than ten hours a day. When the vice president calls—even if it is in the middle of the night—I answer. That does not make for a strong relationship. Or…any relationship. It’s easier to be alone.”
“Domina—”
I shake my head. “If you are about to tell me that is no way to live, keep your opinion to yourself.”
“Whoa. I wasn’t.” Leo holds up his hand. Dressed in short sleeves and a pair of cargo pants, he doesn’t bother to hide the scars along his arms. Or the very thick ones around his wrists. The candlelight makes them stand out even more than they did last night. On video. In his bedroom. “I wasgoingto say that the right person understands when your job is important to you, and they don’t ask you to change.”
“Oh.” I return my focus to the pizza. “Then clearly I have not met the right person.” After a deep breath, I add, “Nor am I looking. It is easier to be alone.”
The lie escapes before I think it through. Is iteasierto sit in a stranger’s apartment in the middle of a storm because I am too afraid to go home?
Yes. Because relationships are supposed to be equal. But they never are.
Leo and I eat in silence for several minutes, each of us studying the other with furtive glances. “You’re left-handed?” I ask. His right is balled into a fist, braced against the plate.
Little lines tighten around his eyes, and he shakes his head. “Not by choice.”
