Текст книги "Unmasked: Volume Two"
Автор книги: Cassia Leo
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Unmasked
Volume Two
Cassia Leo
Contents
Copyright
About the Book
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Thank you!
Other books by Cassia Leo
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About the Author
UNMASKED
Volume Two
by Cassia Leo
cassialeo.com
First Edition
Copyright © 2014 by Cassia Leo
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without expressed written permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
All characters and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
About the Book Unmasked: Volume Two
The continuation of the Unmasked series from New York Times bestselling author Cassia Leo.
Who can be trusted? Who’s wearing a mask?
I left my former life – and my mask – behind.
Running from a past where I was born unloved. A past where I was betrayed by love.
Running from an organization with limitless power and stealth. Running for my life.
I never expected to find love on the run. Not in a tiny seaside town on an island in the middle of nowhere.
Not without my mask.
But it seems as if my sad story is being rewritten with someone else’s pen. But whose pen is it?
This question haunts me day and night. And I get my answer on a perfectly decadent evening. When I come home to find my bedroom perfumed with the scent of death.
He’s here.
Chapter One
Out of the darkness and into the light, a new Alex Carmichael is reborn.
I repeat this mantra in my head as I enter my new home. Drawing in deep breaths, I attempt to sooth myself after a stressful trip to the market, in broad daylight. A few minutes of this, then I head for the kitchen.
The kitchen in this one-hundred-fourteen-year-old cottage has an odd smell, like wet cement. It could be the crumbling plaster on the walls, or the slightly damp wood floors, which never seem to dry due to the humidity.
I open a tiny cupboard above the sink and put away my six new drinking glasses, purchased at a shop a few blocks away, which sells cheap housewares. Six drinking glasses for €1,49 and six dinner plates for €2,00. My first day on this tiny island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, I was a little confused by the comma in the place of the decimal point and the exchange rate. But three days in, I can do the math in my head now.
I put away the plates in the same cupboard, then I open the refrigerator to put away the fruits and vegetables I got at the open-air market just around the corner. I try not to think about the incident with the prickly pear from my last day in Los Angeles. But I also can’t let myself forget. I need to remember that, however slim, there is a possibility that Daimon is still alive. It’s possible I was so distraught that I missed a faint pulse in his neck. I must remember this so I can be ready for him.
I grab an apple out of the brown paper bag and just as I set it down on the shelf in the fridge, a knock at the door startles me. Slowly, I close the refrigerator door and lift the back of my shirt to slide my knife out of its holster. Stepping into the tiny living room, I glance at the two windows on each side of the front door, but I can’t see anyone. My heart races as I step closer. Finally, I slowly push aside the cover on the peephole and peer through.
I let out a deep sigh. It looks like a neighbor here to welcome me with a bottle of wine. I want to pretend I’m not home, but I can’t. I left my mask behind in L.A. No more hiding.
I slip the knife back into its holster and open the door. The man standing before me looks somewhat familiar. I think I may have seen him cutting some branches on a tree just down the lane.
“Hola! Mucho gusto. Bienvenido a La Palma. Soy tu nuevo vecino, Nicolas.”
I stare into his shiny green eyes for a moment, trying to remember one of the few Spanish phrases I have memorized, but I’m dumbfounded. “No habla español. I’m Alyssa.”
I don’t speak Spanish. I’m Alyssa.
I chose the name Alyssa because it sounds close enough to Alex that I think it will be easy for me to get used to. And it sounds innocent. I need people to think I’m innocent. Because I was innocent, until I invited Daimon into my apartment.
“You must be American,” he replies, his lips curling into a charming grin.
His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles and his skin is golden and tanned. He must work in the sun and he must be at least thirty years old. I don’t even know how old Daimon was. Is?
“Yes, I’m American. I’m here on holiday.”
“Oh, what a shame you’re only here temporarily. Are you leaving soon?” He tucks the bottle of wine behind his back, as if my response will determine whether or not I’m worthy of a welcome gift.
“No, I actually don’t know when I’m leaving. Could be a week or a month. Maybe longer. I’m … a photographer. I go wherever inspiration calls.”
Though I’ve already taken the time to set up my new persona by purchasing an expensive camera and photography supplies, saying the words I’m a photographer aloud feels strange. The whole purpose of leaving the States was so that I could take off my mask. Finally be myself. And, in essence, I’ll be hiding in plain sight. The artist disguise feels at odds with this philosophy.
“A photographer.” He raises his eyebrows as he repeats these words, then he pulls the bottle out from behind his back. “I brought you a welcome gift. It’s from my cousin’s vineyard. I got in last night and there were four cases waiting for me.”
The skeptic in me wonders if this guy works for Daimon and he’s trying to poison me. The safe thing would be to take the bottle of wine and thank him. Then flush it down the sink the moment he’s gone. But when do I ever play it safe?
At that moment, a black man in a dark hoodie passes by and waves at me. Why is everyone here so damn friendly?
I wave back at the man, then I take the bottle from my new neighbor’s hand and flash him my best half-albino smile. “Thank you very much. Would you like to come inside and enjoy a glass?”
He grins at me for a moment in silence. He wasn’t expecting an invitation so soon.
“I would love to.”
I open the steel storm door wide and he gives me a gentlemanly nod as he passes over the threshold. There should be a similar test for traitors as there is for vampires. Like, if you feed them garlic, they’re forced to tell the truth. Or if you splash them with holy water, they instantly give up the name of the person they’re working for.
Oh, Alex. You really should stop watching so much TV.
My father’s voice is clear in my head. The memory makes my chest tighten with a rush of anger. I set the bottle of wine on top of the tiny, square kitchen table and head for the cupboard where I just put away the drinking glasses.
“Please have a seat,” I say, reaching into the cupboard. “Oh, shoot!”
“What’s wrong?”
I turn around and he’s halfway between standing and sitting in a chair at the table.
I smile at the awkwardness of his pose. “I forgot to buy a corkscrew when I went to the store today.”
He chuckles as he stands up and grabs the bottle of wine off the table. “That’s okay. I can open it without a corkscrew. Do you have a sharp knife?”
He takes the two long strides it takes until he’s almost face to face with me. I stare at the bottle of wine in his hand until I remember I have to be confident. Looking up into his eyes, I’m caught off guard by the inquisitive look on his face. One eyebrow cocked, self-assured smile, just waiting for me to produce a sharp knife. Probably so he can stab me in the heart.
I let out a coquettish giggle. “Of course I have a knife.”
My hand disappears behind me and whips out my knife in a flash. He scrunches his eyebrows together, dissatisfied with this display.
“You carry a knife on you?”
“Single woman in a new town.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, then he slowly reaches for my knife. I smile as he gently slips the handle out of my grip and turns toward the sink. He holds the top of the bottle over the basin and, in one swift motion, he chops off the top two inches from the neck of the bottle. A good third of a cup of red wine spills out and into the sink, but he rights the bottle before anymore is lost.
I step forward and peer into the sink at the few chunks of glass and red liquid splattered over the porcelain and can’t help but feel impressed. “Quite crafty, aren’t you…?”
“Nicolas,” he reminds me. “But you may call me Nick.”
And how could I forget? Nicolas with the perfectly bronze skin and shiny green eyes. And the fascinating knife skills. I’ll have to keep an eye on you, Nick.
He smiles then reaches for a towel on the counter. “I’ll clean it up.”
I try to take the towel from his hand, but he doesn’t let go. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll clean it up.” His smile softens as he lets go of the cloth. “You can pour the wine.”
He reaches around me and grabs the drinking glasses, then he grabs the bottle and takes them both to the table. I mop up shards of glass and wine with the dish towel and toss them all, towel included, into the garbage bin beneath the sink. I wash my hands and take a seat across the table from Nick.
He slides my glass of wine across the table. “To new places,” he says, raising his in the air, “good lighting,” —he winks—“and new friends. Salud!”
We clink glasses and I bring mine to my lips slowly, waiting for him to take the first sip. Then it dawns on me that it doesn’t matter if he drinks that whole glass. Since I was too busy cleaning up the mess in the sink, I didn’t watch him pour my wine. I can’t drink this.
I set the glass down gently on the table as he takes a couple of gulps.
“You don’t drink wine?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’ve never actually drunk alcohol before and my father told me never to accept a drink from a stranger unless they too are willing to drink from the same glass.”
I feel a twist of regret in my stomach for bringing my father into this.
“Your father sounds like a smart man.” He reaches for my glass of wine and downs the whole thing in a few gulps, then he sets it down on the table looking very satisfied with himself. “See. No poison.”
I smile as I reach for the half-empty bottle and pour us both another glass. I have to blend in. I have to immerse myself in the island culture. Drinking a glass or two of wine per day is supposed to be good for you.
Still, I wait for him to take the first sip, then I take mine. The wine is acidic and musky with a sweet berry finish. I like it.
“So what kind of things do you photograph? Nature, architecture, people…?” he asks.
Though his Spanish accent is very noticeable, he speaks English quite well. And his voice is smooth and crisp. I can understand every word he says.
I take another sip as I contemplate his question, then I flash him a girly smile. “People.”
As expected, this response makes him feel comfortable enough to allow his gaze to linger on my albino left eye and the white patch of skin that covers most of the left side of my face. A photographer who looks like me would be expected to shun people. And the old Alex most certainly did. But Alyssa is different. She embraces her flaws.
It makes you different. Different is good. Daimon’s voice is still so clear in my mind. His words so soothing. How is it that the man who killed my father, the man I killed just four days ago, still has the power to fill me with such warmth and longing? The very thought of him should send me into a tirade. He deceived me! He used me and my body and he didn’t even have the guts to confess he murdered my father.
He also didn’t have the courage to kill me.
Or so he claimed. I don’t know what to believe anymore. But that’s why I’m here on this island. I’m going to find out if anything Daimon said to me the night of the masquerade ball was true.
I drain the rest of the wine from my glass and set it down. “I photograph anything, but mostly people. I do portraits. Would you like your portrait taken?”
His gaze continues to roam over my face, then he smiles. “I would like that.”
“Excellent.” I fan my face as I suddenly feel flushed. “What do you do for a living?”
“I make sunglasses.” I let out a soft chuckle and he shakes his head in dismay. “I know. It’s not as glamorous as being a beautiful photographer who travels the world, but it pays well.”
“And you’re here on vacation?”
“Yes. I don’t know for how long. I’m staying in my Great-Aunt Marta’s house. She passed away eight years ago, so the house has been empty. I’m going to relax for a little while. Restore the house and maybe the garden. I’m … I’m trying to, as they say, find myself.”
“At your age?” I clap my hand over my mouth and he laughs.
“I’m only thirty-two. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
Most women lie to make themselves younger. This whole situation with Daimon aged me two years in the span of four days. I knew he was bad for me.
Bad in all the right ways? asks a sexy French voice in my head.
No!
Oh, God. I’m going nuts.
Nick stands up suddenly and this snaps me out of my Daimon-haze. “Are you leaving?”
“Yes. It’s almost sundown and I still have a water heater to install. Or I won’t be able to shower tomorrow.”
I stand up and follow him toward the door. “That would be unfortunate.”
“For who?” he asks quickly and I hesitate. He laughs as he reaches for the doorknob. “I’m kidding, Alyssa. It was very nice meeting you. I’m sure you’ll be seeing me very soon for that portrait. Shall I bring my Heart of the Ocean necklace?”
I grab the edge of the door as he steps outside and does a half-turn so I can see him from the side with the sun setting behind him. He has a great ass.
“Alyssa?”
My gaze snaps up, away from his ass to his face, and he’s grinning. “Yes, sure. That would be great. See you later.”
I close the door and lean up against it, savoring the way the cool steel feels against my skin through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. I’m flustered by his good looks and sense of humor. He’s so congenial. But, still, all I can think of right now is Daimon.
What would he think of me having a drink with another man? He would not like it one bit. I guess it’s a good thing he’s dead.
Chapter Two
His body is so solid. That’s all I can think as my fingers bump along his ab muscles and down to his thick erection. I wrap my fingers around him and he smiles as the shower water cascades over his glistening muscles.
“Grip it firmly, chérie.”
I tighten my grip on his solid girth and slowly slide my hand down the velvety length. Stepping forward, I press the tip against my clit, then I plunge my hips forward so his cock glides between my lips. I moan and he wraps his arm around the small of my back to hold me still. I tilt my head back and he sucks hard on the column of my throat. That’s going to leave a mark.
Rocking his hips slowly back and forth, he rubs his erection against my clit, using my moisture to guide him in and out of my swollen flesh. His hands grip my ass, then his left hand pulls my leg up, resting my ankle on his shoulder. He slides into my pussy easily, but he’s so hard it sends a shock of pain through me.
“Ow.”
“Does it hurt?” he asks, as he stretches me.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He grips my ass and pushes himself deeper inside me. I yelp in pain and he runs his tongue along the crease of my mouth.
“Scream for me, Alex.”
He pushes me up against the wall of the shower and his pelvic bone grinds into my clit as I cry out in pain and ecstasy. “Daimon!”
“Louder,” he growls, sinking his teeth into my neck.
“Daimon!”
“I’m going to destroy you.”
He licks the tender skin on my neck where he just bit me, tracing his tongue all the way up to my jawline then to my lips. He takes my top lip into his mouth and sucks hard as he grinds against my clit. The pulling and the grinding is driving me insane.
“Oh, please, Daimon. Don’t stop.”
He curls his hips further, digging deeper inside me, crushing my swollen bud with the force of each thrust. The one leg I’m standing on begins to weaken and I coil my arms tightly around his neck for support.
“I want you to come when I come.”
“I’m going to come now,” I breathe a warning, but he doesn’t slow down. My leg trembles and my stomach muscles begin to clench. “I’m coming!”
“Not until I say so!”
“I’m coming! I can’t stop! Oh, God!”
He grabs a chunk of hair on the back of my head and thrusts his tongue into my mouth as he pounds my pussy. I release guttural, high-pitched screams as he continues to drive into my sensitive clit. Then he groans into my mouth as he comes inside me.
He continues to kiss me, tenderly, as his hips move oh-so-slowly back and forth. Until his throbbing cock finally softens inside me and I let out a deep sigh.
“I love you, Alex.”
The words take me by surprise, so much so that I open my eyes and my stomach clenches at the sight before me. I’m in the tiny bedroom of my rental cottage in La Palma. The morning sunlight is streaming through the sheer curtains. The blankets and sheets are pushed off the bed and into a pile on the wooden floor. My nightgown is pulled up to my neck and the black panties I wore to sleep are missing.
Instinctively, I reach down to cover myself up and find my pussy is soaking wet and my clit is sensitive, as if it’s been overstimulated. Was I touching myself in my sleep? I’ve never done that before.
Something smells … different in here. The hairs on my arms stand on end as I inhale the scent of something briny. Images of my dream flash in my mind and I quickly yank down my nightgown to cover myself up. A wave of shame rolls through me as I slide off the bed to retrieve the covers. I toss them haphazardly onto the mattress and head straight for the shower to wash away my embarrassment.
How can I have such poisonous dreams of Daimon after what he did to me?
The body knows only what the body wants. It doesn’t care about the consequences to the mind or the heart.
I push back the pink shower curtain and reach my hand in to turn the water on. Peeling off my nightgown, I toss it into the pedestal sink basin and look at myself in the mirror. I force myself to stare directly at the white streak of hair on the left side of my head and the white blotches of skin on the same side of my face. I used to avoid mirrors at all costs, but everything changed the night I met Detective Daimon Rousseau.
He didn’t just change me into a woman. He changed me into a woman with a purpose. And my purpose was to make him pay for what he did to my father.
Out of the darkness and into the light, a new Alex was reborn as Alyssa.
I trace my fingertips down my left cheek, over my neck and down to my breast. My nipples are a bit darker. Maybe I was rubbing or pinching them in my sleep. That was quite a dream I had of Daimon.
I resist the urge to move my hand further down and touch myself to the memory of my dream. Instead, I step inside the shower and force myself to sing, loudly, so I don’t have to think of Daimon and his beautiful cock.
Oh, get a hold of yourself, Alex, I reprimand myself silently.
I take a quick shower, running the water a bit colder than normal to cool my hot, aching skin. Then I hurry into a pair of jeans, white tank top, and sandals. Looking at myself in the mirror, I realize the jeans look far too much like the old Alex. I change into a soft turquoise jersey skirt and sigh with a bit of relief. My legs are so white from not wearing anything but jeans for the past nine months. You can hardly see the white patches of skin on my left leg.
I grab a canvas grocery bag from the hook inside the tiny walk-in pantry. Then I hang my camera around my neck and make my way outside. Closing the front door behind me, I turn around to face the Atlantic Ocean. It looks just like a “wish you were here” greeting card. Picture perfect.
And the smells…. The whole island smells briny and sun-baked. Mix in some of the local aromas of tropical flowers, the savory smells from people cooking in their homes, and the sweet, earthy smell of grapevines. I could get used to this kind of life.
But I mustn’t get too comfortable. I have to appear comfortable on the outside. Inside, I have to remain self-conscious and vigilant.
I set off down the lane toward the open-air market with one thought in mind: Out of the darkness and into the light. I have to blend in with everyone else here, and they’re all so damn happy.
A squat woman with brown wrinkled skin, wearing a flowery apron over her gauzy dress, smiles at me from where she’s sweeping her front stoop. Her husband sits in a chair at the far end of their porch, his bottom lip jutting out farther as if he’s lost his top teeth. He waves at me then flashes me a partially-toothless grin.
I smile and wave at both of them. “Hola!”
They must be silently wondering who this strange looking girl is who just moved in next door. I’ll introduce myself to them soon, when I have a bit more time. Today, I have to get to the market before all the ensaimadas are gone. Ensaimadas are decadently soft bread rolls filled with sweet pastry cream and dusted with powdered sugar. I’ve only had one since arriving in La Palma, but I’ve already deciphered that they are quite popular here as a breakfast item. If I don’t get to the market soon, they’ll run out.
At the crossing, I turn the corner and I can smell the market from a block away. It always smells like a combination of fresh fish, fruit, and baked goods. A young kid, maybe mid– to late-teens is standing next to a bicycle outside a convenience store. He stares at my white hair so unabashedly, I’m afraid he’s going to drop the bike at any moment. I force a smile and he flashes me a weak smile in return.
I really should be used to this by now. This is what I’ve been dealing with since the moment I left my apartment four days ago. From the moment I stepped into the taxi that drove me to the airport and the cab driver did a double-take when he saw two different colored eyes, my stomach has been clenched tight as a fist.
I’m trying really hard not to get angry with people for expressing their natural shock and curiosity. After all, millions of years of evolution has taught us to shun undesirable mutations. There’s no use in arguing with a person’s natural instincts. But it still hurts.
I arrive at the bakery stand where a long folding table is covered in an orange and blue striped tablecloth. Half the pastries are already gone, gobbled up by the early risers, but there are still three ensaimadas left. I point at them then hold up two fingers.
“Uno cincuenta,” the merchant woman says as she begins to put them in a white paper bag.
I don’t know what this means, but I know uno means one, so I give her two euros. She hands me back fifty cents. So cincuenta must mean fifty. I’ll have to remember that.
I smile and say thank you in Spanish, then I use hand motions to ask if I can take her picture. She smiles for the camera and I say gracias a few times before I head back toward Dolores Street, the narrow lane I live on. Also the narrow lane that my new friend Nick lives on, which is where I’m headed. A dark flitter of movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention as I pass the convenience store, but when I turn toward it there’s nothing there. My eyes flit back and forth at both sides of the street, glancing over both shoulders then forward again. Nothing and no one but locals here.
It’s hard to let go of that paranoid sense of being watched. My father had been watching me every night for eight months. I’d grown so accustomed to that feeling. It made me both uneasy and comfortable at once knowing he was keeping an eye on me. I didn’t know I was also being watched for months by Daimon. It’s only natural I’m still on edge.
I turn left onto Dolores and the gravity of the downhill slope is urging me toward the tiny gray stucco cottage on the right side of the lane. The house is set back from the iron gate surrounding the property and the grass is a bit overgrown, but he did mention that he’s only been here a day or so. I’m sure he’ll be outside pushing a lawnmower with no shirt on very soon.
I lift the latch on the waist-high gate and slide it aside. Pushing it open, I step onto the cracked concrete pathway leading toward the small cottage. I close the gate softly behind me and make my way toward the front door.
Something about the fact that he’s not up at nine o’clock in the morning, already working on taming this unruly garden, disconcerts me. I can’t help but think of Daimon. By nine o’clock, Daimon would have this garden tamed with at least three adversaries buried beneath the soil.
I knock on the dark wood door with the intricate carvings and wait. My heart pounds as I realize I didn’t prepare a greeting in my head. What am I going to say? Hi, I brought you some bread! Not very clever or sexy, but—
The door opens, interrupting my thoughts as I’m rendered speechless. Nick is standing before me in nothing but black boxer briefs. His hand is rubbing his face, attempting to wipe away the cobwebs of sleep clinging to his drowsy expression. His bare chest is smooth and golden with a light patch of hair trailing from his navel and downward, disappearing underneath the waistband of his boxers. Right above that bulge. I have a strong urge to photograph him right now.
“Alyssa?”
I snap my eyes upward and he looks stupefied by my presence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just… I brought you something… to thank you for the bottle of wine.”
Don’t look at the bulge. Don’t look at the bulge.
He glances at the white paper bag in my hand and smiles. “You didn’t have to do that. What is it?”
“Um …” I look down at the bag and catch another glimpse of his boxers, then quickly look up. “Bread?”
“Bread?” I nod and he chuckles as he opens the door wider. “Come inside and we can share this bread.”
I step over the threshold and into his living room. It’s small but more modern than I would have expected considering he’s only been here for a couple of days and it used to belong to his great-aunt. The white sofa and heavy wood coffee table are anchored by a soft gray area rug. Beneath the rug are light beechwood floors that extend into an open dining area and kitchen.
“Have a seat at the table. I’m going to put on some clothes.”
I smile as he heads toward the hallway on the left and I head for the dining table. Passing a small black desk set against the wall, I can’t help but notice a passport and two photo identification cards lying on the surface. I pause, tempted to pick them up to see what kind of IDs they are, but the sound of footsteps stops me.
I turn around and his eyebrow is cocked as he approaches. He brushes past me and opens the top drawer of the desk. Then he sweeps all the IDs into the drawer and quickly slides it closed.
He smiles as he gently places his hand on the small of my back. “Come. Sit. I’ll make some coffee.”
I take a seat at a dark wood dining table in the kitchen, but I don’t bother telling him that I don’t drink the stuff. I might as well give it a try. I tried the wine last night and it wasn’t so bad. But I’ll have to watch him carefully while he prepares it.
He’s wearing a blue T-shirt that clings a little to his chest and shoulder muscles. The jeans he wears look perfectly distressed, just like his dark hair. From a shelf above the steel kitchen counter, he grabs a glass French press coffee maker and he begins spooning some coffee into it from a jar. He seems very at ease and this house feels very lived in. It doesn’t seem like it was empty for years.
He carries the French press and two mugs to the table and sets them down in front of me. “Do you take your coffee with milk and sugar?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
I keep my eye on him as he retrieves a small carton of milk from the stainless steel refrigerator and a small jar from the counter. Grabbing a couple of spoons from a drawer, he sits across from me at the table and pours me a cup. I don’t know the first thing about how much milk and sugar goes into a cup of coffee, so I take a guess and put a splash of milk and three spoons of sugar. When I taste it, it’s very sweet, but I don’t say this.
“Very good.”
He pours himself a cup, but he doesn’t add any milk or sugar. He quietly sips from his mug for a minute or two while watching me. Then his face gets very serious.
“Forgive me, but I have to ask about this.”
He reaches forward and I flinch a little when he gently grabs a piece of my white streak of hair. I push his hand away and take a deep breath as I remind myself not to retreat inward. It’s a simple question.
“I’m a chimera. I have two sets of DNA.” He scrunches his eyebrows together in confusion and I sigh. “This is why I’m here. I’ve been hiding all of my life. I just wanted to go somewhere I could be myself.”
My stomach hurts at the painful truth buried in this lie.
He smiles and tilts his head. “It’s quite beautiful. You look like a superhero.” I laugh and he smiles even wider as he leans forward. “You also have a beautiful laugh.”
Flattery. He wants something.
I reach for the white bag and push it across the table so it’s between us. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
He reaches into the bag and pulls out an ensaimada. Then he takes a huge bite, getting powdered sugar all over his lips and a bit on the tip of his nose.
“These are my favorite,” he says through a mouthful of bread. “How did you know?”
I smile at his goofiness as a strange warmth grows inside my belly. But I can’t help but feel as if something is off. I don’t know how to talk to him. He’s not like Daimon. He’s not like me. He’s normal.
“I should get going.”
I rise from the table and he tosses his bread back into the bag. “I’ll walk you home.”
I chuckle and immediately wonder if I’m doing it just because he complimented my laugh. “That’s not necessary,” I say when I reach the front door. “I’m just two houses down on the other side of the street.”
“I know. You’re closer to the ocean than I am. I’m jealous.” He stands with his hand on the door handle, making no attempt to open the door so I can leave. “Would you like to come with me to a dinner party tomorrow night? A friend of the family would like to welcome me to the island. Any excuse to get drunk.”
