I shake my head, my eyes burning. “You cannot promise that, Leo. No one can.”
* * *
Leo
I’m shit at the soothing and supportive parts of relationships. I went to the campaign office to protect Domina, and instead, I confirmed her worst fears. That thereissomeone after her or her boss—or both of them—and she’s in danger.
And instead of telling her you wanted to take her out on a date, you made it about recon instead of her. Asshole.
We order plates of grilled corvina—a local whitefish—along with a cured chorizo appetizer and fried plantains, but when the server leaves, Domina fiddles with a delicate gold bracelet around her right wrist and stares over my shoulder at the water in the distance.
I don’t know how to get her back—not that I ever had her—and as the awkward silence grows between us, my mind races, scrambling foranythingthat might let me catch a glimpse of the woman who shared cold pizza and tea with me the other night.
A group of teens pass by on skateboards, and I use them as an excuse to check up and down the sidewalk. Across the street, a guy wearing black jeans and a dark green t-shirt sits on a bench with a book balanced on his knee. The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I’ve seen him before.
Scooting my chair closer to Domina, I pull out my phone and tap the camera. “Smile. We’re on a date, remember?”
“Wh-what?” She stares at me, confusion clouding her eyes. I drape my arm around her shoulders and hold the camera up.
“Trust me. Please?”
Domina’s lips curve, and it transforms her face from beautiful to stunningly gorgeous. With a quick tap to the screen, I focus on the guy reading behind us. He hasn’t moved or glanced in our direction, but I’m not taking any chances. After a couple of shots, I recenter the frame to capture one of just the two of us. It might be my only chance.
Being this close to her makes me want things I can’t have. Pulling away leaves a strange, burning hole inside me, and I drag my chair back to the other side of the table.
“Probably nothing,” I say. “But there’s a guy across the street who looks familiar.”
Her eyes widen. When she reaches for her water, her fingers tremble. The glass teeters, and she scrambles to catch it, a string of Spanish curses tumbling from her lips.
Shit.
“Domina, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She takes a tentative sip, then carefully sets the glass back down. The fire returns to her eyes. “You startled me, that’s all. I am not so delicate you need to hide the truth from me. You have a job to do.”
“Is that what you think this is? My job?” I ask. “Because if that were true, we’d be in the bowels of Rio Abajo or El Chorrillo. Myjobat the moment is finding a low-life piece of shit who left his pregnant wife three weeks before their kid was born so he could go fuck the nineteen-year-old who used to sell him coffee every morning.”
Domina swallows her retort as the server delivers our appetizers. As soon as the man returns to the kitchen, she leans forward. “I can find my own way home, Leo. Go do your job and do not worry about me.”
“I’ll always worry about you.” The admission shocks both of us. Domina’s shoulders jerk, and I stab a piece of chorizo with my fork. “I know I don’t have the right. But it doesn’t stop how I feel.”
She doesn’t say anything for several minutes. I’m suddenly not hungry, but I force down another couple bites of chorizo. If I don’t eat, I won’t be any good to her.
“How do you feel?”
The question leaves me hollow. If I tell her the truth, she’ll run—and she’d be right to. But I can’t lie to her.
“I want to know you, Domina. Maybe even…bewith you. And despite what you said in your office about that kiss, you clearly don’t want to see where this goes. So let’s have a nice lunch—as friends—and get home. After that, we can stop pretending we’re something we’re not. At least until tomorrow.”
* * *
By the timethe waiter brings us two cups of coffee and an order of flan, I don’t know which way is up—at least where Domina is concerned. We passed an hour with light conversation. Favorite foods, movies we’ve seen, books we love.
“Good Omensis the one I go back to at least once a year,” I say, grabbing a single sugar packet and dumping it into the dark brew. “Terry Pratchett was a genius. Thank God for the invention of eBooks. You move around as much as I do—or did—you can’t keep a paperback collection safe.”
Domina stares at me like I just committed a mortal sin.
“Shit. Don’t tell me you hate Pratchett.” Thumping my hand over my heart, I hope for at least a smile—if not a complete denial.
