Page 5 of Before Dawn

What the fuck was wrong with me?

“Is it a blessing that I’ve seen your face twice in one month?”

His voice cut through my haze, the deep Spanish lilt making my pulse stutter.

I blinked, his words pulling me back to the present.He remembered me?After nothing but fleeting glances at the airport? My fingers gripped the edge of the sofa as I fought the urge to look away, to hide the way my nerves twisted inside me.

“Most definitely,” I said, forcing a small, awkward smile.

His honey-brown eyes studied me, warm and unreadable, like he was trying to figure me out. “Would you like to have a seat with me, Red?”

Something about the way he asked—like it wasn’t just an offer, but an invitation to something deeper—made my chest tighten.

Red.

I blinked at him, my brows pulling together. “Red?”

His lips twitched, a slow smirk tugging at the corner.

“Is it because of my shoes?”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I mentally cursed myself.How fucking stupid did that sound?

Get a grip, Abigail.

“No, your curly red hair,” he replied, amusement glimmering in his eyes.

I blinked, surprised. With my hair tucked in a bun and the dim lighting, I hadn’t expected him to notice its color—let alone that it was curly. Most men’s eyes usually went straight to my tits or ass, like the bartender earlier who couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from my cleavage.

But I wasn’t about to overthink this. It was... refreshing.

“As for the seat, you lead the way.”

I glanced at Azzaria, who looked perfectly content, her head on her boss’ shoulder, his arm around her like he belonged there. So much for pretending she wasn’t into him.

I took a deep breath, straightening up before following him.

“Here we are.”

He gestured to the seat, waiting for me to sit first.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, crossing his leg at the knee. The movement pulled his shirt tighter across his chest, and—Jesus Christ.

I forced my eyes up. “Water is fine.”

He handed me a bottle, and our fingers brushed. A small, ridiculous jolt shot up my arm. I told myself it was just the chill of the bottle. That was all.

Still, my grip wasn’t as steady as I wanted it to be.

“This is nice,” I managed, though the words felt inadequate, trailing off into nothingness as I struggled to think of something else to say.

I felt my face warm as I realized he was watching me again.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Better?” I asked, confused.

He cleared his throat, taking a slow sip of his drink. The way his lips barely touched the glass—delicate, controlled—was mesmerizing. Like a scene straight out of a movie.

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