Page 83 of Damián

I walk past a fountain, three gardeners, and a bunch of stone steps until I reach the main doors.

I ring the bell, and the melody is so fancy it sounds like they’ve kidnapped the Vienna Boys Choir and are keeping them in the attic just to sing whenever the doorbell rings.

What the hell…

The door swings open, and I am greeted by Martin, aka Oliver’s Alfred.

“Good afternoon, sir. Master Oliver and the missus are in the back waiting for you.”

Next to Martin stands a young female staff member holding a silver tray with a Margarita. She moves the silver tray toward me, offering the drink.

“I’m driving,” I say, holding a hand up to decline.

“Your motorcycle will be safely delivered to your apartment in Soho, Mr. Soto,” Martin says, extending his hand to take my helmet. “So please, do not worry about the commute.”

Of course it will…

I give Martin my helmet, take the drink, and sip it.

It’s freaking delicious.

“Thank you, sir. Please follow Malena and enjoy your afternoon.”

I follow Malena through the grand foyer and the main living areas. My eyes automatically sweep the room, memorizing the layout, the security cameras, and points of entry that could be of any use in the future.

The Manhattan home isn’t quite as humongous as their Hamptons mansion, but it is undeniably big, especially considering it’s one of like four fully detached houses in Manhattan. And although the taste in the decor is questionable, the bones of the house are incredible.

We step out onto the back terrace, and the afternoon sun hits my face.

“Damián!” a woman’s voice calls out.

I look toward the pool and see Serena, with her blonde hair tied in a high ponytail and a golden micro-bikini.

Is every piece of clothing she owns golden?

I wave hello, and then I see him.

Oliver is sitting at the pool’s edge, wearing a pair of dark swim trunks that sit dangerously low on his hips, and he looks absolutely breathtaking.

The sunlight makes his messy hair seem lighter, the water makes his skin softer, and I can tell they’ve been here for a while since Oliver’s shoulders and cheeks are starting to get reddish.

But as I get closer, I can tell something is wrong. Oliver appears tense. His eyes are irritated, he looks like he hasn’t slept in days, his shoulders are stiff, and more importantly, he refuses to look me in the eye.

He bounces in the water, staring at his drink, at the guards, everywhere but at me.

He looks… guilty.

What the hell did you do?

I wonder, as the same uneasy feeling that’s been my constant companion for these past six days creeps back in.

“Oh my God, hi!” Serena gasps, stepping forward to intercept me. “I am so excited to finally meet you! We have so much to catch up on. How did you two meet? Who made the first move? Are you staying for dinner?”

Oliver groans, absolutely mortified. “Serena, please. Let the man go get changed before you strap him to an interrogation chair.”

“Fine, fine,” Serena pouts playfully.

A staff member seemingly materializes out of thin air, holding a stack of white towels and three bathing suits in my size.