He frowns, looking at me sharply. “Goodbye?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.” I give him a faint smile. “It didn’t feel right just sending you a text.”
His lips move but no sound comes out.
How strange to know what those lips feel like against mine.
What they tasted like.
How they moved against my mouth, like we were two people learning to breathe together.
“Why?” he says. His voice is low and rough, making my skin tingle. He clears his throat, his brows furrowing. “You have two weeks, don’t you?”
“You’ve been counting down?” I ask sweetly, not sure if I should be flattered or not.
He draws in his lower lip through his teeth and then gestures to the bar chairs at the kitchen island. “Here. Sit. Tell me what’s happening.”
I sigh. In some ways I just wanted to tell him and leave so I could put him behind me and never look back.
I walk over to the chair and plunk down on it, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. All the stress over what’s happening is hitting me at once, my bones feeling heavy.
“I know it’s been a while since I’ve been here,” I tell him, elbows on the table, my head in my hands. “But do you have anything to drink? Because I could really use something. Anything.”
I can feel his eyes on me, assessing the situation, perhaps about to tell me that I drink too much. Perhaps I do.
“I think so,” he says after a moment.
I look up, watching him as he goes into his living room and opens a cupboard beside his vinyl collection and record player. Fuck, he has such a nice ass. All football players do, but his really takes the cake. I’m going to miss staring at that ass when he’s not looking.
He brings out a bottle of scotch and places it on the table in front of me. Then he turns and grabs two shot glasses off the shelf above the sink.
“I have proper rocks glasses,” he says to me, screwing off the cap. “But I feel these might be more appropriate.” He pours the scotch in the glasses and then hands me one.
“Shot first?” he asks.
I’m a little dumfounded. I’ve never seen him take a shot before. Never seen him drink in the middle of the day before.
“Bottoms up,” I tell him, raising my glass.
We keep eye contact as we slam them back, until I have to look away, the alcohol burning my eyes. “Wow. Ow. That burns.”
I manage to look at him, squinting through tears.
Luciano looks as cool as a cucumber. Of course he does.
When doesn’t he?
That night. That night he kissed you. He looked wild.
I swallow that image down with the scotch.
“Better?” he asks me. He pulls out a chair across from me and sits down, pouring us both another shot. “What’s going on? Why are you leaving tomorrow? Where?”
“I guess I’m going to Barcelona.”
“You guess?”
I shrug, bringing the glass toward me, staring down at the tawny liquid. “Yeah. Marco bought me a plane ticket.”
“He’s going with you?” Luciano frowns.
I give him a dry look. “He broke up with me.”
“Oh.” His forehead creases. “I’m sorry…”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” he says. “Of course I am.”
He takes another shot.
I take mine.
The sting feels beautiful this time around.
“Did you know that Marco was planning on breaking up with me?”
He shakes his head, looking me right in the eyes. “No.”
I believe him.
“If you knew, would you have tried to convince him otherwise?”
He stares. Swallows.
“I don’t know.”
I believe him there too.
I breathe out harshly and sit back in my chair, already feeling a bit buzzed. “You know, I knew we had to end it. But there was a part of me that thought maybe the end wouldn’t come. Maybe I’d find a way.”
Luciano doesn’t say anything to that. I glance at him and I can’t read his eyes at all. His body language is stiff, his fingers grip the glass.
“I think,” I go on, “it was more important for me to find a way to stay here, rather than find a way to be with him.”
“So then don’t go to Barcelona,” he says mildly.
“And do what? Stay in Lisbon for another few weeks?”
Luciano lifts a shoulder, looking down at his drink. “Why not?”
“Because there’s nothing here for me.”
He licks his lips and nods. “I see,” he says after a beat.
God, I hate this runaround. I hate not knowing where we stand. Part of me wants Luciano to ask me to stay on his behalf. The other part of me knows that would be setting myself up for future heartbreak. I mean, Marco didn’t break my heart. He broke my confidence a little, knocked down my pride. Definitely taught me some humility. No matter how you look at it, rejection is never fun.
But Luciano. Luciano Adrien Duarte Ribeiro, if you’re going by his full Portuguese name. If I stayed to be with him, and then I had to leave, I would be ruined in the end. Absolutely devastated. This man standing in front of me has the power to break my heart open with a single kiss, I have no doubt anything more would leave me shattered.
“What if I asked you to stay?” he asks softly, taking me by surprise.
He meets my eyes, and now I can read them. Now I see the warmth in them.
The hope.
The fear.
The desire.
The exact same feelings that are burning down my spine like a candle wick.
“I can’t,” I say. My words come out in a whisper. “I think…I think that would be a bad idea.”
“Then what if I asked you to stay for tonight?”
My heart skips a beat, feeling heavy in my chest.
He’s asking me to stay with him.
Just for one night.
One night is all we can give each other.
I want to give him everything for once.
I feel my pulse tick in my throat, my stomach feeling effervescent.
I stare at him and he gives a tiny lift of
