Breakfast went in a blur afterward.
Mr. Montoya had carried his plate elsewhere immediately after tormenting me in the kitchen like some emotionally unstable criminal with excellent hands. Meanwhile I’d remained frozen beside the counter for almost two full minutes trying to recover my dignity.
And my ability to breathe. By the time I finally sat at the dining table alone, the chilaquiles had already gone cold. Not that I noticed much. Because every single time I lifted the fork toward my mouth, all I could think about was his voice near my ear.
“Say my name.”
Heat crawled painfully up my neck again at the memory. I hated him. No. That was a lie. I hated the effect he had on me. That somehow felt worse.
The rest of the day dragged endlessly afterward. The condo remained eerily quiet.
