She looks so beautiful. Horrified, but beautiful.
There’s so much I want to say and from the looks of it, she does too, but our moment is robbed when our phones go off at the same time.
An odd coincidence, but considering how words have escaped us both, I welcome the distraction from my sister, this time in the group chat.
Lorena:
We have a new member to the chat
Everyone welcome my bestie from NYU … Sarina
Fuck.
Lorena
Oops I hit sent by accident. Sarina Tesoro but I call her Ri.
Fuckkkk.
CHAPTER 11
SARINA
Neither of us know what to say. Or how to act for that matter. We’ve not only learned each other’s name but also that Lorena was correct, despite the fourteen floors that comprise the law firm, our paths did cross. Faster and more unexpected than I think either of us anticipated.
Deciding to be the one to break the ice, I push through the awkwardness and ask, “Would you prefer I call you Tomás or Mr. Ramos instead?”
He stuff his hands inside his pockets.“I didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“I guess fate has a funny sense of humor, huh?”
“That it does.” A grin exposes his dimples. “But to answer your question, you can call me whateveryou’dprefer.”
Why does he have to be this way? Smooth and flirtatious yet so gentlemanly… and Lorena’s freaking brother.
I feel so stupid.
How did I not notice the similarities in both of their features before? Because now, as I’m staring at him with no decent —or work appropriate— thoughts floating throughout my head,seeing how fine he looks in yet another custom suit, the resemblance is glaring.
“I think we’re a little past what I’d prefer since calling you Mr. Armani would raise some questions, and I don’t think calling youpapiwould be office appropriate.”
His dimples show themselves further as his grin remains.
“Tomás it is,” I settle for.
“That sounds nice.”
“Well, it’s your name, I’d hope you like how it sounds.”
“No, I mean it sounds nice hearing you say it,” he says with an undertone of flirtatiousness that his stoic facial expression contradicts.
Silence lingers between us as he motions for me to sit. I do, and it’s not until I’m walking past the chair in front of his desk and halfway to his chair that I realize what I’m doing.
“Jesus Christ today,” I breathe out, and before I know it, we find ourselves sharing a laugh drenched in relief. Though the longer it simmers between us, the more it highlights the line we’re tiptoeing.
“You meant that chair.” I point to the one across from his, ready to pivot toward it, but it’s too late. He’s already standing behind his chair, with his large, vascular hands adhered to either side, pulling it out for me to sit on.
“Are you going to sit down or are you going to make this more difficult for me than it already is?”
