Page 6 of Ricardo
“Regular coffee?” I ask, hopeful.
“That is fine.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
“I am deciding whether to be offended that you think I drink regular coffee.”
I glance back at him, sheepish. “Truth is, I have not mastered the espresso machine, so I was simply being hopeful.”
That smile deepens.
I go a little weak in the knees.
“Regular coffee is fine.”
I turn away before he can see the way I react.
There is no reason for my pulse to be doing anything interesting. He is Mario’s brother. He is Dante’s father. He is not here for me. He is a man waiting for another man in an office where I work, and the only thing required of me is coffee and basic competence.
Still, I feel the weight of his attention on my back while I pour.
I am too aware of my own movements. The angle of the pot. The sleeve of my blouse sliding a little when I reach for the cup. The fact that I wore my hair down today because I was running late and did not feel like pinning it as I had planned. It seemed more office-appropriate.
Appropriate.
I almost laugh.
For nearly three years, my life revolved around being appropriate.
The appropriate fiancée. The appropriate daughter. The appropriate woman at the appropriate fundraisers, smiling in the appropriate photos beside a man who knew exactly where to place his hand on the small of my back so no one else saw the pressure in it.
No.
Not here.
I pour the coffee, place it on the saucer, and carry it to Ricardo.
He takes it from me.
Our fingers do not touch.
Somehow, that feels more deliberate than if they had.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome.”
I sit again and turn back to my computer.
There are three messages waiting. One from accounting. One from Lorenzo’s assistant. One from a board member of a charitable foundation I used to work with, who has apparently decided my new job makes me a useful path to Mario.
I delete that one without answering and continue my work.
After a while, Ricardo’s voice caresses my spine, and I try not to shiver.
“You are very efficient.”
“I try to be.”
