Page 9 of Ricardo

It makes me wish I had said less.

It makes me want to say more.

I fold my hands in my lap beneath the desk, where he cannot see them. “It's a consequence of the career path I've chosen and the people who tend to surround it.”

“Yes,” he says. “But that is not all of it.”

My breath catches. No. No, it isn't.

Ricardo sees that too.

Of course he does. He's far too observant for his own good.

I reach for the top folder on my desk because I need something to do with my hands. “Mario asked me to have these ready for Lorenzo by noon.”

“Then I should let you work.”

“You’re not stopping me.”

“I am distracting you.”

I look up.

His voice is calm, almost courteous.

But there is nothing innocent about it.

The pause that follows stretches just long enough for me to become aware of everything I should not be aware of. His hand resting on the arm of the chair. Ringless. Large, well-kept, veins faint beneath olive skin. The watch at his wrist. The immaculate cuff. The way he sits back like he has all the time in the world, even though men like him never do.

I notice there is no wedding ring, and I remember that he has never married. He had Dante when he was very young. Never married his mother and never married anyone else either, I guess.

I shouldn't be noticing that, and I definitely shouldn't be feeling any certain way about it.

“You are fine,” I say carefully.

His mouth tilts.

“Fine,” he repeats.

My cheeks warm.

Damn him.

I open the folder and scan the top sheet. Vendor contract. Redline notes. Mario’s handwriting in the margin, sharp and minimal. He writes like he speaks. Nothing wasted. Nothing softened.

I force myself to focus.

Ricardo lets me.

For almost two full minutes, he says nothing.

The silence should settle back into professionalism, but it does not. It sits between us, full of all the things neither of us has said. Every shift of paper sounds too loud. Every breath feels measured. I am conscious of the space between the chair and my desk. Conscious of him drinking coffee. Conscious of the fact that when I reach for my pen, his gaze follows my hand.

It is ridiculous.

I am twenty-six years old. I have stood in ballrooms where the president spoke, beside governors, senators, old-money wives with diamond necklaces and smiles like broken glass. I have handled a donor threatening to pull half a million dollars from a hospital wing because the wrong person introduced him at a gala. I have managed seating arrangements that required the emotional intelligence of a hostage negotiator.

I can sit across from Ricardo Conti for twenty minutes without unraveling.