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“This is great,” he says, touching the bookshelf, obviously appreciating the old wood and antiques. “How old is the house?”
I tell him, just talk to him like he’s not who he is. Like last night didn’t happen. It’s awkward, but I try to ignore it. It’ll be over soon. Coffee and a tour. He’ll be gone in fifteen minutes.
He follows me through the living room, and I point out the bathroom downstairs before climbing the narrow staircase up to the second floor. Pepper stays at the bottom of the stairs watching us.
“She’s too old to climb anymore,” I say.
He nods. “Low ceilings.” He has to duck his head.
“It’s got more space than you’d think,” I say, pointing out the two bedrooms. “This one’s mine.” I open the door to my messy room, walk in ahead of him and kick some clothes under the bed, close the dresser drawer that’s still open and turn to him. He’s checking out the fireplace.
“Can you use this?”
“I think so. I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to burn down the neighborhood. You could say I’m accident prone.” As if to demonstrate, I trip over a shoe on the floor.
“You’re messy. That’s why you’re accident prone.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
He stands there watching me, and I see the shadow behind that light-hearted, entertained look on his face, in his eyes. He’s dark. At his core, no matter how he tries to mask it on the surface, there’s a darkness to him.
I shudder. Tell myself I have to remember this.
“I know you from somewhere,” he says. Does he remember that convenience store robbery?
“Is that the real reason you’re here?” I ask. I know he isn’t interested in a tour or coffee.
Before he can respond, I hear the buzzing of a cell phone announcing a message. Sergio reaches into his pocket, reads the screen. He types something back then returns his gaze to me. His eyes, last night I’d thought they were black, but I see now they’re midnight blue with specks of gold in them. Like stars. Like a clear night sky with stars.
I take a deep breath in. He’s so close I can smell his aftershave.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Do I?” he asks.
He’s studying me and my heart is racing. I wonder if he can hear it. But then he’s reading another message. He’s preoccupied. His phone buzzes a third time. After reading that message, he mutters a curse under his breath. Texts something. Pushes his suit jacket back to tuck his hand into his pants pocket.
That’s when I see something glint, shiny and black in its holster under his arm.
“Do you have a gun with you?”
He doesn’t reply, just narrows one eye, weighing how to answer my question perhaps. Or trying to steal my memory, to know why he feels a familiarity.
“Did you bring a gun into my house?” I ask again.
“It’s not your house, remember?”
“Did you?”
“Would it scare you if I said yes?”
“You put one to my head yesterday.”
“Before I realized you were…you.”
“You scared me,” I admit.
He pauses. Wrinkles form around his eyes for a moment as if this is a revelation to him. “Do I scare you now?”
I don’t have to think about it. I shake my head. “No.”
“Good. Besides, guns are more part of your life than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
His phone buzzes again. It’s irritating to have him read his messages while he’s talking to me. He types a quick reply before giving me his attention, but I can see he’s distracted.
“Second amendment, sweetheart. The world you live in is a violent one. You’re just blissfully unaware.”
“Maybe that’s true for you, but not for me. I don’t deal with guns or the mob.”
“You’d be surprised.” He steps back. “I have to go.”
“Oh.” I’m oddly disappointed when he gestures to the bedroom door.
“I’ll take a raincheck on the coffee though.”
My shoulder brushes against his hard chest when I walk past him and out the door. I don’t look back as I descend the stairs, my heart still beating fast. In the kitchen, I look at the box containing the brand-new phone, wondering yet again how, twice in less than twenty-four hours, I find myself in a wholly surreal situation with Sergio Benedetti in the driver’s seat.
He opens the front door and a cold gust of wind blows in.
“You have good locks on these doors, Natalie?” he asks, twisting the doorknobs, testing the lock.
“That’s a strange question.”
He turns back to me. “You’re an attractive, young girl living alone in the city.”
“Woman. Not girl. And I can take care of myself.” His face tells me he believes otherwise, and I get that. Because last night didn’t exactly make my case.
“The locks?” he asks again, ignoring my comment.
“They’re fine.”
He walks out of the house but turns back like he’s about to say something. His phone rings this time and he steps out, but before answering, he mouths for me to lock the door.
