Page 7 of Ricardo

“No.” He takes a sip of coffee. “That is not what I said.”

I glance at him.

He is watching me over the rim of the cup, relaxed in the chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. He looks too elegant for an ordinary workday. Too composed. Too aware of himself and everyone else.

“You said I’m efficient,” I say.

“I said you are very efficient. There is a difference.”

“With Mario, I’m learning there’s a difference between every word.”

Another smile that weakens me.

What is wrong with me?

“Yes,” he says. “There is.”

I return to the email from accounting and type a reply. I can feel him watching, not in a crude way. Not openly enough for me to object. More like he is letting the silence do part of the conversation for him.

I should hate it, the silence between us.

I really do not.

That might become a problem.

“So,” he says after a minute. “Two weeks.”

I keep typing. “Two weeks.”

“Has Mario made you regret taking the job yet?”

My fingers still on the keyboard.

The smart answer is no. The polished answer is something about the work being challenging and rewarding. The answer I would have given in Connecticut is a pretty, useless sentence wrapped around nothing honest. Something diplomatic and political.

But Ricardo’s eyes are on me, and something about the amusement in them makes me reckless.

“Mario is easier than charity boards.”

His eyebrows rise. “Is he?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I send the email before I answer. Then I look at him.

“Because at least he doesn’t pretend he’s not terrifying.”

For one suspended second, there is nothing.

Then Ricardo laughs.

Not a polite laugh. Not the soft exhale wealthy men give when they want women to feel clever.

This is a real laugh that comes from his chest, surprised out of him, and it changes the atmosphere between us so quickly that I don’t have time to guard myself against it.

His face opens. Not enough that anyone else might call it vulnerable. But enough that the polished danger slips, and beneath it, there is warmth. A flash of something alive and almost boyish, made sharper by the silver at his temples and the lines at the corners of his eyes.