Page 13

I watch him walk across the street, whistling to the other hawkers. Their faces light up when they see the foil tray in his hands. They go to a bench in the plaza nearby, wash their hands under the fountain there, then sit down in a small circle and share the paella, eating with their hands and laughing with one another, as happily as if I had given them a feast.

It’s a small exchange, but it fills me with more contentmentthan the full tip jar on the counter. I close the door and turn up the music, smiling and dancing a little as I wipe down the fridges, feeling absurdly happy for someone who has just worked a fifteen-hour shift.

The door jangles, and I turn, expecting to find Ibrahim with the foil tray, which he always insists on returning in gleaming condition, despite the fact that I just throw it away.

“You’ve been dodging me, Skippy.” Dimitry waves the clean foil tray at me. “Present from your friends across the road.” He strolls across the deserted café floor, whistling tunelessly, and puts the tray down on the counter. His smoky, faintly spicy scent hits me at about the same time I take in how fucking good he looks in suit pants and a black shirt.

Oh, fuck.

The man would be a smoke show with a sack on his head and wearing a hazmat suit.

“You look like you’re in a hurry.” His steel-gray eyes settle on mine as he leans sideways on the counter. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes, actually.” I take my apron off and stuff it into my duffel bag, pulling out a black dress and waving it at him. “And since we’re technically closed, and I’m late, you should probably leave.”

“Nice dress.” He’s still grinning, but I don’t miss the way his eyes have narrowed slightly. “Hot date, Skip?”

I give a hollow laugh, twisting the dress in my hands. “Something like that.”

He nods slowly, his smile fading. Something tells me he’s about to walk out and never come back.

And suddenly, I really don’t want him to.

Fuck it.

Why am I lying about a piece of shit like Miguel, anyway?

“Well, not exactly.” I put the dress down on the counter andmeet his eyes. “If you want the truth, I have to go and break up with someone.”

“Ah.” The gray eyes gleam, and he leans into the counter, his large hand unbearably close to mine. “In that case, you’re going to need a wingman.”

That delicious thrill starts to uncurl at the base of my spine again.

“Is that right?” I say dryly, though my heart is suddenly going like a trip-hammer.

“Absolutely.” He touches my hand with one finger, grinning wickedly. “First rule of breakups: have someone on hand to buy the vodka afterward.”

His finger strokes my hand, slowly enough that I can’t help imagining what it would feel like stroking me somewhere else.

“Oh, so you’re my wingman now?” I’m glad my voice sounds steady, because my legs can hardly hold me up.

“We can call it that, if you like.” His eyes travel over me like he’s already touching what’s beneath my T-shirt.

And, oh fuck, I want him to.

He turns my hand over and holds it in both of his. “Are you sure you can’t do this breakup over the phone? I’d far rather take you out for vodka now.”

His voice is low, intimate, and works like a grade A vibrator between my legs.

“That wouldn’t be right,” I say shakily, seriously questioning my own sanity.

“Fine.” He slaps the counter briskly. “No time for dalliance then, Skippy. Get your glad rags on. Let’s do this thing.”

I giggle as I scoot out into the kitchen. “Dalliance?”I call to him through the swing door, stripping beneath the pale fluorescent kitchen lights. “You sound like something out ofPride and Prejudice.”

“I’ve spent the last few years flying back and forth from London,” he calls back. “And Ofelia, Roman’s eldest daughter,made me watch the entire BBC boxset of that show once, on a rainy afternoon.”

I push the swing door open and stare at him incredulously. “You?” I say, straightening the black dress over my hips. “Youwere babysitting?”