Page 70 of Ricardo

Ricardo does not fill silence for the sake of it.

I'm not sure if I like that or hate that about him.

Most men, in my experience, rush to occupy empty space. With opinions. With questions. With little performances of authority or charm. Harrison could not sit in silence without filling it with something—a test or a lecture.

Ricardo just lets the silence exist.

I shift my bag slightly on my lap and look down at it because the alternative is looking at his hands. His left rests loosely against his thigh. No ring, of course. Long fingers, clean nails, the faint shadow of veins beneath olive skin.

I look back out the window.

Immediately.

“You are thinking very loudly,” he says.

I close my eyes for half a second.

“I am thinking at a completely normal volume.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I apologize to your thoughts.”

I glance over despite myself.

His mouth is almost smiling.

“That was terrible,” I say.

“I disagree. I did exactly what I was supposed to do.”

“And what is that?”

“Acknowledge we're in the same car together.”

My face warms.

I turn back to the window. “That sounds like strategy.”

“It was.”

“At least you admit it.”

“When the evidence is obvious, denial wastes time.”

A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.

The driver changes lanes smoothly. The city opens briefly to a wider street, sunlight striking the windshield hard enough that I blink. Ricardo reaches toward the side panel and adjusts the shade above my window without leaning into me, without making a show of the gesture.

The light softens.

I look at him.

He has already withdrawn his hand.

“Thank you,” I say.