Page 89 of Careless Whisper

His smile twitched. “Only the important ones.”

He led me to the living room, which had a comfortable leather armchair, a table made out of bricks in front of it. On the makeshift table was a plate with two tamales and a glass of beer.

“New interior designer?” I asked drolly.

He laughed. “Yes! Me.”

“You like living with no furniture?”

“I like that it’s minimalistic but colorful.”

The cushions on the armchair were bright and so was the rug on the floor. He’d put up framed street art and I had to admit, the placewascharming.

“Sit.” He waved a hand to the armchair and walked to the small balcony and brought a metal chain in.

“Put on a shirt,” I said before he could sit down.

He looked at me, all feigned innocence. “Why?”

“You know why.”

He flexed his muscles, and I rolled my eyes. “Does my naked chest distract you, Gigi?”

“You wanna talk or you wanna fuck?” I asked.Please say fuck because…I could so fuck you after reading that letter.

The letter had reminded me of the Elias I fell in love with. The man who would commend me on agood shift, who’d get me coffee just because, who’d buy me a massage gift card…the man who made me feel cared for.

“Baby, I’ll fuck you all day every day,” he said haughtily. “But I think this one time, I’m going to cover up so you don’t throw yourself at me.”

With that parting shot, he walked into what I assumed was a bedroom. He came back with a loose linen shirt on.

“You stole my father’s moves.” I waved the letter at him.

“Yes.” His face softened with vulnerability. “Did it work?”

My eyes filled with tears. “Yes.” I swallowed hard. “But…I need time.”

“Take all the time you need.”

“But?”

“But nothing, Gigi.” He crouched in front of me and put his hands on my lap. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” I asked, feeling like a fool.

“I do,” he murmured and then kissed me.

CHAPTER 32

Elias

In another life, I would’ve kept count—how many times she smiled at me, how often we touched, whether she called me Eli or Baby. But here, in San Miguel de Allende, the me who was learning to be a better version of myself didn’t need the data. I felt the shift betweenusin my bones.

We weren’t what we used to be—we were new, and yet our foundation was old.

The days fell into a rhythm—early mornings at the clinic, sun spilling across the red-tiled floors as Reggie handed out assignments.

I watched children laugh as they left with lollipops and clean bandages, and listened to old men joke about my gringo Spanish.

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