Page 85 of Ricardo

Ricardo follows my gaze. “I read that a possible storm was passing us by.”

“Seems like it had other plans.”

The first drops hit the glass a moment later.

A few scattered marks at first, barely enough to be called rain. Then more of them, gathering quickly until the window is covered in thin, uneven lines.

Ricardo watches it for a second, then looks back at me. “We should not wait too long.”

“No.”

But neither of us moves.

I take another sip of Coke, even though the ice has watered it down. My hand feels too aware of the condensation on the glass. My knees feel too close to his beneath the table, even though they are nowhere near touching.

The light keeps changing.

The room is still the same room. Same table. Same plates. Same quiet service and expensive chairs and polished windows.

But something about the storm makes it feel removed from the rest of the club.

Like whatever is happening at this table belongs only to us.

A deeper roll of thunder moves beyond the glass, distant but clear enough that several people in the main dining room react. Voices rise slightly. Chairs scrape somewhere outside our room. The sky darkens another shade.

“I guess we really should leave now,” I joke.

“Yes.”

The server walks back in and asks if we'd like coffee, and Ricardo tells him we're going to leave before the storm gets any worse.

“Of course, Mr. Conti,” the server says. “I'll have your car brought around.”

I guess lunch is officially over now, which saddens me more than it should. I fold my napkin and set it beside my plate, then reach for my bag. The file is inside, safe and dry and suddenly far less interesting than it was an hour ago.

Ricardo stands when I do.

The courtesy should feel formal. It should put distance between us.

It does the opposite.

He is closer standing. Taller. Broader. The private room feels less private now, and somehow more so.

I step around my chair at the same time he reaches for my bag where the strap has slipped against the edge of the table.

The backs of my fingers brush his.

Both of us stop.

The rain strikes the window in hard, steady bursts.

I look up.

Ricardo is watching me, and there is nothing light in his expression now.

No amusement. No polite mask. No harmless flirtation tucked safely behind restaurant conversation.

Just want.