Five days passed before I finally admitted to myself that Mr. Montoya was avoiding me. Five entire days.
Not once had we eaten breakfast together again. Not once had he sat with me on the balcony at night. Most mornings I woke up to an already empty condo while his bodyguards muttered something vague about “meetings” whenever I asked where he went.
Meetings. That was apparently the answer to everything now. Where’s Mr. Montoya? Meetings. Why isn’t he back yet? Meetings. When will he return? Meetings.
At this point I was beginning to suspect the man slept inside a meeting. Or was he tangled up with somebody else? Or maybe he simply preferred another company. Could he be with some other woman? My face burned at the thought. He sure knew how to drive a girl crazy with his tongue.
I sat c
