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Miguel still hasn’t accepted our breakup, despite me never answering his calls and making it extremely clear that we were done when I met him in Pillars. The more paranoid partof me thinks he’s just trying to do the Colombians’ work for them and give them a good look at me.

Barely moments after his text, he saunters through the door, smiling as though we never had a breakup at all.

“Hola, guapa.” He gives me what a hundred paparazzi shots have no doubt taught him is his best smile. “Are you coming out to dance with me tonight?”

“No, Miguel, I’m not.” I deliberately answer in English, even though I speak fluent Spanish and know that he struggles with my language. “Like I told you last week, we’re over.”

He scowls. “This, it was not serious.”

I’d laugh if I wasn’t so exhausted. “Actually, I am fucking serious, Miguel. We’re done, and you need to leave.”

He gives me an ingratiating smile that sets my teeth on edge. “But tonight at Pillars, the paparazzi will be there. I need you, Abby. Please?” He speaks in a wheedling, babyish voice that gives me the worstickof all time.

“I’m not going to Pillars with you.” I keep my tone polite with an effort. “Not now, not ever. I’m tired, and I have to be back here at seven a.m. to open. I’m sure you can find a dozen girls to pose at Pillars for you.”

“But the cameras, they loveyou,Abby—”

“Well, I don’t love them.” I’m starting to get annoyed. “Seriously, Miguel. You need to leave. I have to lock up.”

His smile fades. He switches back to Spanish. “You know my friend, Lance Ryder?” His eyes have a sly, mean cast. “He thinks he knows your face. He thinks maybe he’s seen it somewhere before.”

“Oh, really?” I meet his eyes directly, praying he can’t tell that my heart just skipped a dozen beats and the blood has drained from my face.

“Si.” He reaches over the bar and pours himself a drink without asking. I don’t try to stop him. I’ve learned the hard way that when Miguel doesn’t get what he wants, he can getvery nasty, very quickly. Last time he got nasty enough to threaten me physically, which is the primary reason I broke up with him—and why I’m being polite even now.

Lately, his pursuit has felt threatening. Especially given his closeness to Lance Ryder, the sleazy paparazzi who has snapped one too many pictures of me lately.

“Well,” I say, shrugging dismissively, “I was dating Rafael Hernandez when I first came to Spain. Paparazzi tried to snap us everywhere we went, so it’s no wonder your journalist friend recognizes me.”

His eyes narrow.

Mistake, Abby.

I shouldn’t have brought up Rafael. He’s an influencer with a platform of several million who gets more tabloid coverage than Miguel ever will. For someone with an ego the size of Miguel’s, that is an unforgivable sin. Of course, if I’d had any idea how popular Rafael was when I met him in Buenos Aires, I’d never have dated him, but at the time I was desperate to get out of South America. Rafael promised to get me permanent residency in Spain. He never followed through on his promise, which has left me stranded here. And he neglected to mention that the Spanish press follow him everywhere.

Most of the reason Miguel dated me in the first place was simply in the hope the paps would follow us with as much interest as they do Rafael. Since one of the many reasons I broke up with Rafael was to avoid that kind of attention, and that since then, I’ve meticulously avoided any public displays of affection with Miguel, or indeed anything at all that might attract paparazzi attention, that has never happened.

“Maybe Lance knows you for another reason.” All trace of humor has left Miguel’s expression. He just looks mean now. “You were in a hurry to get away from my Colombian friends in Pillars the other night. Why is that, Abby?”

A prickle of fear crawls over my skin.

“You looked scared.” His eyes are red with alcohol, but uncomfortably sharp nonetheless. “Why would my friends make you scared, Abby? Is there something you’re not telling me?” He advances toward me, a nasty gleam in his eye.

Oh, fuck.

I’m suddenly horribly aware that I’m alone in the café. And that Miguel looks like he’s drunk far more than he should have.

Then a quiet voice comes from the entrance. “Abby.”

I almost faint with relief when I look up to find Dimitry standing just inside the door. He’s wearing black suit pants and a white dress shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up just far enough to show the ink on his arms.

For once, he isn’t smiling.

He’s staring at Miguel with hard eyes and an expression which clearly implies he views Miguel as a bug that he’d have no issue crushing under the heel of his very nice Italian leather shoe.

I’m so relieved to see him that he might as well have flown through the door in a superhero costume.

“Dimitry!Baby!” Pulling off my apron, I run across the café and fling my arms around his neck, for all the world as if we’ve been dating for weeks. “You’re late!” Aware that Miguel is watching our every move, I kiss Dimitry like I really fucking mean it.