Page 65 of Lady and the Hitman

We sat in a booth near the window, the Formica table scratched and the napkin holder lopsided. But the smells—sweet plantains, roasted pork, something spicy and bright—made my stomach growl audibly.

He ordered for both of us, not even looking at a menu.

I studied him across the table. The way he leaned back with one arm draped over the seat. The way the waitress brought our coffees before we even asked. The way he made this dingy little spot feel like a secret worth keeping.

“You come here often?” I asked.

He nodded. “First place I found when I got to Miami. Felt like home.”

I sipped the coffee. Strong. Sweet. Perfect. “You’re not from here.”

“No.”

“But this place—this neighborhood?—”

“It doesn’t ask questions.”

I understood that.

There was something about anonymity. About not being seen too closely. About choosing where to be known and where to stay hidden.

“You like being invisible?” I asked.

He looked at me then, serious. “I like choosing when I’m not.”

That landed.

We ate slowly, savoring every bite. The food was comfort incarnate—no frills, just flavor. And somehow, that made it feel more intimate than the bath. Than the bed. Than the letter that started it all.

He kept glancing at me between bites, like he couldn’t quite believe I was there.

Like he didn’t want me to disappear.

At one point, our knees touched beneath the table. Neither of us moved.

And then he said it.

“I want to see you in Charleston.”

The words dropped like a stone in my stomach.

Charleston meant reality. Bills and deadlines and the sound of my mom’s voice on the phone, a little too cheerful lately. She and Dad had been working overtime to keep the nursery running, but I could hear the strain in the background—the missed shipments, the quiet seasons, the help they couldn’t afford to hire. I hadn’t asked for details, and they hadn’t offered them. But I could feel it. Like a crack under the surface that might split open if I pressed too hard.

I stiffened. Just barely. But he caught it.

“What?” he asked.

I reached for my water. “It’s just … I don’t know how that would work.”

“Why not?”

I gave a tight laugh. “Because I have a life. A job. A mom who calls every day. A reputation.”

“And I’m what? A secret?”

I met his eyes. “You’re a fantasy.”

He leaned forward, all steel and shadow. “I’m real, Zara.”