“Pffft.” I waved my hand dismissively, barely containing a scoff. Instead, I asked, “So, why jazz and blues?”
He shrugged. “Partly from my childhood in Brazil. It’s big there. Then I spent time in the States, where I grew to love it even more.”
Surprise flickered through me. “You’re not Albanian?”
“Part Albanian, part Brazilian.”
I tilted my head. “That’s quite the combination. And I noticed that you don’t have an accent when speaking English. How is that?”
“I guess I’m linguistically gifted.”
It didn’t escape me how carefully he revealed—or didn’t—things about himself.
He lifted his drink to his lips and my gaze followed the movement from his mouth, then down to his Adam’s apple.
What the hell’s wrong with me?I quickly looked away to glance at my drink.
I lifted it and finished it in one smooth motion, as if the alcohol might steady something inside me that was suddenly far too aware of him. I knew better than to think alcohol could steady anything or anyone.
“Do you want another drink?” he asked, his gaze flicking to my empty glass. “I don’t know you yet, so I don’t know your tolerance.”
Yet.
The word lingered, warm and suggestive, and heat crept higher into my cheeks.
I couldn’t quite tell what I was feeling—excited, reckless, or just plain stupid. Maybe it was all of it tangled together. Or maybe it was something entirely different.
Lonely.
That word echoed again and I cursed it. Over the last few months, it had found a way of making every choice feel sharper than it should.
Chapter 12
Kian
Shadows danced in Sophie’s crystal blue eyes and it didn’t require a genius to realize there were secrets hiding behind them.
I knew certain things about her, but there was more to her story than what was included in the background check sitting on my desk back at my villa. She was running, although she certainly didn’t carry herself as someone who was scared. She was the type of person that was used to fending for herself: sharp, bold, witty, and beautiful.
“I’ll have another mojito, but make it my last one,” she finally said, and I signaled for a refill.
My watch only read 7:13 p.m., and yet the heat of the evening pressed down on us, sticky and heavy, making the idea of food feel almost irrelevant. Usually, we’d eat much later, once the sun had softened and the city had cooled. But hunger—or rather, appetite—was the last thing on my mind.
The air smelled faintly of olive oil and spices from nearby tables, mixing with the sharp tang of the sea breeze, grounding me yet pulling me closer to her in an invisible orbit.
“So, Sophie, how long are you in Albania for?” I asked, changingthe subject as the waiter appeared, setting down fresh drinks for both of us, along with water and our dinner.
She lifted her glass and took a measured sip, then set it back down before answering. “For now, I’m staying put. I might have to look into the legalities of staying longer than three months.”
“Who knows, you might have to marry a local,” I joked.
She chuckled, although it lacked humor. “Are you volunteering?”
Jesus, if I were honest, I wouldn’t mind volunteering as tribute, and that in itself was unusual considering I’d avoided marriage for this long.
I cleared my throat. “No man waiting for you? Or a job to go back to?”
She bit the inside of her cheek and I couldn’t shake the sense that there was far more to her than met the eye.
