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He’s searching for something with his questions but he’s not spilling any tea as my kids say, and he won’t unless he chooses to.
That’s one thing that’s changed, the still center of him, the control. He’s a man who is deliberate and closed mouthed until it suits him not to be.
Except when he went for Riff. Except when we argued. That was naked, raw, and thrilling in ways it shouldn’t be.
“Diego, will you let me know what’s going on?”
“Later.” I can’t tell if he means it or it’s a way to shut me up or a bit of both. “C’mon, another drink.”
He orders and leads me to a quiet corner where we lean against the wall. He smiles and my heart spins.
For a second, when Diego leans in, I think he’s going to talk more about everything, and I’m already a mess inside. But he surprises me.
“Who’s the douche?”
I laugh and sip my drink, aware he knows how to tie me in knots, aware he knows how to play me. But this . . . I think this is something he can’t help but ask.
Out there, when we danced, the touches were orchestrated, designed to lay claim, to throw me off in case I knew something I didn’t think I knew.
Right now, I could pay him back. I could toy with him, play with him. But I’m not a player, I suck at those kind of games, too awkward. I’ve had sex outside Diego and Riff, a handful of guys, but not that many. Enough to know I’m not the kind of woman who can wrap any man around her finger even if I wanted to.
I don’t want to.
Maybe . . . maybe just this man.
“Ex-fiancé. It didn’t work out.”
“Good.”
The harsh bite of his words makes me laugh. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“That you’re way too good for a doughy douche like him. I hope he cried when you dumped his ass.”
A warmth spreads through me. “Maybe he dumped me.”
“I don’t think so. And he wants you back.”
“He just thinks he does because I ended it.”
“I’ll break his face for you.”
“He didn’t cheat, it just didn’t work.”
Because Riff isn’t Diego. It burns, that knowledge, something I never admitted before he walked back into town.
I called Diego and went through hoops to get his number. I could have asked Riff.
“Yeah, well, you’ll choose better next time, Nadie.”
And with that he kills the tiny dreams of us being an us dead. He destroys the hope that what’s between us isn’t just old lust and latent heat remaining from times gone by and it means he’s into me now.
He isn’t.
And that, I tell myself, is a good thing.
I barely survived a broken heart last time.
This time, I don’t know if I’ll survive.
