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“I came to give your friend something from my friend.” He waves an envelope in the air with his free hand, nodding at where Lucia is standing at the coffee machine.

“Hm.” My eyes narrow. “I’m not sure that your friend is a good idea for my friend. ”

“Want to know what I think?” Tasty Bodyguard turns my hand over beneath his and slowly traces his index finger down it, from the top of my central finger to the pulse point on my wrist.

I quiver, my entire body taut as a drawn bow.

“I think that friends should support their friends. Given that your friend and mine appear to be getting on very well, it makes sense that you and I should too, don’t you agree?”

His finger draws a slow figure eight on my wrist. I can’t look away. I can’t stop imagining how that finger would feel inside me.

“And what would getting on very well look like, exactly?” I’m uber impressed that my voice is relatively steady.

It’s more than I can say for my pulse, which is thudding like a hammer between my legs.

“Well, to start with, it would look like meeting me for a drink the moment you get off work tonight.”

“I don’t even know your name, muscle boy.”

He gives a low chuckle that hits me in the base of my spine and starts spiraling deliciously upward.

“It’s Dimitry. Here. I’ll write it down for you.

” His hand grasps my T-shirt and draws me slowly toward the counter.

He leans over it, so big he barely has to move to find himself on my side.

Pulling the pen off the V of my T-shirt, he takes the top off with his teeth, then—still grinning—writes his number on the hem bunched up in his hand.

“Wow.” I try not to focus on the warmth of his fingers grazing my belly. “You owe me a T-shirt, Dimitry.”

“If you stay the night at my place, I’ll wash it for you.”

I shake my head, biting my lip to stop myself smiling. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“Hey, I’ve been trying to ask you out for five months. It’s taken this long to get from go to hell to don’t call me Skippy . I thought I’d strike while the iron was hot. ”

His phone rings. He answers it without letting go of my shirt. “ Da .”

His face changes as he listens, though his hand doesn’t move. He says something curt in Russian, then ends the call.

“Let me guess,” I say sarcastically. “The boss man needs his shoes cleaned?”

“Something like that.” He grins, not seeming in the least offended. “You’re going to call me. And if you don’t, I’m coming here at the end of your shift to ask why.”

As he lets go of my T-shirt, his large fingers trail over the skin of my waist, making me shiver.

He walks out of the café, his broad back and ridiculously tight ass making denim and white cotton look like they’ve just been invented. He jogs across the street, then turns around. When he sees me still watching him, he grins and raises his hand.

Fuck.

I’m in serious trouble.

As it turns out, I get out of work that night before Dimitry can come back. For the next few days, I dodge him like hell.

And not just because of how good he looks in denims.

The truth is that, technically, I still have a boyfriend. I say technically because lately, I’ve been dodging Miguel even harder than I have Dimitry.

Miguel is a striker for Cádiz Football Club, which is a second-rate team from the amateur leagues.

Unfortunately, in a small city like Malaga, the team is just big enough for the paparazzi to treat the players like minor celebrities.

Lately, a persistent photographer who spotted us at Pillars nightclub a few weeks ago has been hanging around the café, trying to get snaps of me like I’m some kind of footballer’s wife.

It’s starting to freak me out, but that’s not the only reason I’ve been trying to break up with Miguel for weeks.

There’s also the banal conversation, his awful friends, and the even worse sex.

The only reason I finally agreed to meet him at Pillars tonight is to make sure he gets the message once and for all that we’re over.

And the sudden urgency has nothing to do with Dimitry writing his name on your shirt, huh?

I push that thought away as I wipe down the counter, missing Lucia like hell for the umpteenth time since she left the café to go and live with Roman. I didn’t realize how much I relied on our daily banter to get me through the long shifts until she wasn’t here anymore to laugh with.

It’s late, but still so hot that the streets are teeming with people. I look at the tables outside, still waiting for me to pack them up, and heave an internal sigh. Sometimes, work feels like a mountain that never ends.

Then I notice one of the African street hawkers, who sells watches on a board outside, stacking the chairs.

“Ibrahim!” I wave. He lifts a shoulder, smiling, but doesn’t say anything as he picks up the tables and piles them inside.

I go into the kitchen and fill a foil tray with the paella we give away as free tapas to our customers.

I hand it to Ibrahim as he puts the last table inside the door.

He nods shyly. “ Shukran ,” he says. Thank you.

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 contentment than 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 and meet 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 of Pride 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. “ You were babysitting?”

“Hey.” He throws up his hands. “I do a better job of it than Roman, believe me.”

I roll my eyes. “That, I do believe.”

I reach up to take my hair out of the messy bun.

“Don’t.” Dimitry shakes his head with a slow, dangerous grin. “Leave it up.”

I’m suddenly breathless. “Why?” I manage.

His grin turns dark. “Because I want to take it out later.”

We stare at each other, and I feel a trickle of heat from nipple to groin. Dimitry tilts his head toward the door. “Let’s go, shall we?”