Page 33 of Damián

“She was probably just having a bad day,” Damián says, following along. “Maybe you should go get some drinks with her.”

“Now you sound like her.”

Damián’s phone rings, and he clicks the speaker button, followed by a friendly “Hello.”

“Hey, dipshit! You left your tortillas in the oven, and now half of the kitchen looks black. Come back and fix it!”

I bite my lip hard, trying my hardest not to laugh. Who the hell is that man?

For the Swedish accent he has, I feel like he could be either Björn or Leif. I did my research on them, so I know their faces, names, and other details, but it’s not like I know their personalities or their voices.

“Can’t you clean it for me?” Damián asks.

“What am I, Cinderella?”

“I’ll pay you. And if not, leave it like that, and I’ll fix it once I’m back.”

“I am late for work and don’t have time for this!” the voice screams louder. “You fix it now, or I’ll call the landlord.”

“Can you bring me back to the grocery store?” Damián asks me with a pleased smile on his face.

“Sure.”

“Thanks, guapo. I’ll make it up to you on Tuesday.” Damián leans toward the phone. “I’m on my way.”

“About fucking time,” the loud Swedish man says and hangs up.

Woww…

I am shocked at how realistic this call was.

How many calls has he needed like that in his life to be natural at it? Not just Damián, but whichever one of the Swedish twins called.

Still, I concentrate on our way back to the grocery store, and for some reason, the ride seems shorter. I turn the Escalade onto a street, and Damián points at the curb a block away from the store.

“You can park there so you don’t go past the stoplight. I can walk from here.”

“Then I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

Damián pulls me closer, and I hold my breath. He is so close I feel like he’s going to kiss me as he did against my car, but instead, he kisses my cheek before grabbing his things.

“See you on Tuesday, guapo.”

He winks and disappears into the crowd. I wait until he’s out of sight before turning the car back toward the house.

The drive back to my family home does nothing to settle my nerves. By the time my Escalade crunches over the gravel of the Manhattan West estate, my jaw aches from how hard I’ve been clenching my teeth.

I hand the keys to a valet who doesn’t look me in the eye and push through the double doors. The house is silent; it is always silent.

But what do you expect from a place so full of emptiness?

I take off my shoes and give my coat to one of the staff.

“Thank you, Malena,” I say, and walk away.

All I want is my room. I want to strip off this shirt that smells faintly of Damián’s cologne, lock the door, and try to sleep. For the first time in my life, I am so mentally exhausted and so awake at the same time that I don’t know what to do.

I make it exactly two steps toward the grand staircase before Martin appears before me, his hands clasped behind his back.