MYSTERIOUS LOVER #1: FALCONE

CHAPTER 6.1

C H A P T E R S I X

When I suddenly felt my hair move off one shoulder, sweep over my neck, and over my other shoulder, I had already reached my zone and was able to concentrate despite a group of commandos pounding around in my house.

Then I sensed lips grazing my ear's back flesh.

I swerved wildly out of my comfort zone and careened joyously into a whole new zone as a delightful trembling emanated from my ear moving up, down, and out, and my eyes on the computer screen became unfocused. After the lips stopped speaking, I groggily noticed a brown paper bag and a white plastic bag hitting the desk next to my computer. The clock was 12:47 when I glanced at the bottom right of my computer screen.

Lunchtime.

Falcone was standing there pulling apart the bag's folded-over and stapled top when I swiveled in my chair and glanced up.

I remained silent because I was too preoccupied with freaking out about the fact that this was the subject of a fantasy to speak. When I stated that, I meant that I had daydreamed about it and was now experiencing it.

Okay, maybe not the Chinese cuisine, but there have been many times when I've slept asleep and daydreamed about what it would be like if my Mysterious Lover suddenly appeared in the open, approaching me stealthily as I washed dishes in the kitchen, and slipping his arms around me. or while I was taking a shower and he came in.

Or perhaps he approached me secretly while I was at work and kissed my neck.

exactly how I wanted at my favorite location.

He kissed my neck almost as though he had just snuck up on me.

exactly how I wanted at my favorite location.

Furthermore, it was better than a fantasy since it actually happened rather than just being a pleasant addition like Miranda's Chinese Noodles.

Damn.

I was attempting to gather myself as he began taking food out of the bag. I watched him pull out a cardboard soup cup with a lid and another container of noodles, both of which I recognized as being for me because I'd previously had takeout from Miranda. Chopsticks in paper were presented after that, and he then pulled out another container for him. He then picked up the bag, tossed it to the floor, and rifled through the second bag, which had the unmistakable red, orange, and green insignia. He brought out a bottle of water, which I assumed was for him, and placed a can of diet grape soda next to my meal.

I fixed my gaze on the Coke. Then I returned my gaze to him.

“What? Do you agree with me? " I inquired.

"Sometimes," he said, and my eyes squinted. "My guys do it from time to time."

He walked over to my couch, sat down, placed his drink on a side table, and opened the lid of his food container.

"Do you have a big, massive file on me somewhere?" " I inquired, peeling the paper from my chopsticks before taking up my soup and removing the cover.

"No, only verbal reports," he said. 'She went to Miranda's for soup and noodles, then to 7-Eleven for a diet grape.'

Unreal.

“How come? " I inquired.

"How come? " he said again.

"How come you and your boys keep following me?"

"Babe," he said, then dived into his noodles with his chopsticks as if nothing had happened, him and his boys following me, sharing information about my food and beverage preferences, invading into my life without my knowledge. Then my gaze was drawn to his food, and his noodles appeared to be little more than noodles and vegetables. There is no sauce. There are no cashews. There are no peanut particles. There are no succulent shrimp. There was none of the nice stuff. Nothing. It's just noodles and vegetables.

This reminded me of the first time I saw him, in a restaurant. He ate a steak with baked potatoes and steamed veggies. I recall observing, somewhat drunkenly, that he didn't have anything on his potato at the time. It's not sour cream. It's not bacon bits. It's not cheese. Nothing, not even butter.

"What exactly are you eating?" I inquired.

"Noodles and vegetables," he stated flatly, and pushed some into his mouth with his chopsticks.

"Just noodles and vegetables?"

He chewed, swallowed, and then put more noodles into his mouth.

"Is there no sauce?"

" I shoved.

More eating followed by swallowing, followed by, "Babe, if I ate like you, I'd grow a gut." You can't have a gut in my line of business."

My blood pressure began to climb. "Are you suggesting I'm overweight?" ”

"Sweet Pea, the manner you eat suggests you got t**s and a*s," he said, chopsticks full with noodles and vegetables halfway to his lips. This is great since I enjoy t**s and a*s. This is awful since Finn and Magtanggol like 'em just as much as I do." He then pushed his noodles and vegetables into his mouth and remarked, "Finn maybe more."

Shit.

"I need to concentrate on my work," I declared.

"Then focus," he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him, crossing his feet at the ankles, evidently intending to remain a while.

I locked my gaze on him. This was unfortunate since he looked great spread out in my office like that. Antonette and I had painted the walls white, but I'd had the hardware store guy spray a bit of orange into the paint so the white had a warm feel to it. My workstation was long, white, sleek, slim, and girly. My shelves were also white and girly. The narrow, square tables on either side of the couch were both white and feminine. My couch was a salmon-colored cushion with chartreuse and peacock blue throw pillows. I'd done a lot of light wicker decorating and had white porcelain, round, lacy shaded lamps all throughout the place. It wasn't too girly, all pink and ruffled, but it was a feminine space.

Falcone sat on my couch like an invading conqueror savoring a lunch before venturing out to loot and pillage. Except he wouldn't have to r**e anyone; instead, all the townswomen would line up for their turn.

Shit.

I shifted my gaze to my desk and smelled my soup. Lemongrass. Yum. I stirred it with my chopsticks before taking a drink.

"What's your true name?" I questioned Falcone, my gaze fixed on my computer.

"Yago Cabrera" He responded without hesitation, and my gaze was drawn to his in astonishment.

"Yago Cabrera?"

He didn't say anything as he pushed more noodles into his mouth.

"What is the meaning of Yago's name?"

" I inquired.

"Who the f**k knows?" he said as he gulped and seized more noodles. Ma is insane."

His mother was a nut.

Interesting.

"Is Cabrera Mexican?" I pushed.

"Puerto Rican," he said without hesitation.

"Are you Puerto Rican?"

"Look at me, honey, I'm not a true Filipino."

No, he was nothing like that.

"Did you grow up in Puerto Rico?"

“Nope. Manila.”

A uncommon native of Manila. Surprising.

In contrast, I was not a native. Dad had brought Melinda, Isabelle, and me to Manila from Batangas when I was ten, but I didn't tell Falcone since he presumably already knew.

"Your parents are Puerto Rican, then."

"Dad is. Ma is half Filipina and half Italian."

It's no surprise. Puerto Rican, Italian, and Filipino flavors combine to make the ultimate spicy, bossy, badass drink.

His brow furrowed. "Is this the focus? ”

I guess someone had had enough of sharing.

I returned to my computer, fished in my soup with my chopsticks, picked out a large prawn, and ate it.

Fresh, fiery, and bright.

I drank another sip of soup to wash down the prawn. Then I attempted to concentrate on work as Yago "Falcone" Cabrera sat on my couch. Unsurprisingly, I was absolutely unable of doing so, but perhaps I succeeded in appearing I could.

Falcone walked up to my desk, bending as he moved to grab the dropped bag. I had just finished my soup, leaving the mysterious bits in the bottom unattended (I loved that soup but those mysterious bits freaked me out and I never ate them). I had also taken a sip of my grape in anticipation of the next culinary delight.

I feigned to ignore him as he placed his container into the bag and reached for my soup container before I heard the word "Falcone."

I pivoted to look at the thin, well-built man Falcone had been speaking to earlier outside; I suspected that he was his Numero Dos. I assumed he was not someone you messed with because he appeared to be of the same ethnic mix as Falcone and was even shorter and slighter. He had also revealed his name was "Smoke," and he had a scar that ran from his temple into his black hair.

He addressed Falcone with the word "Company," not even for a split second turning his gaze to me. Poor guy!

He disappeared.

Falcone walked away, throwing my soup container into the bag and the bag into my waste can. I, too, relocated. I followed him, putting my noodles on my desk.

Falcone abruptly stopped and spun, causing me to run into his front.

I took a step back, looked up at him, and before I could say anything, he asked, "Any chance you won't give me lip if I ask you to remain up here?"

"Not a chance," I said.

He looked at me for a moment, then shook his head, as if I were invading on his greeting company at this house, rather than me walking down the stairs in my own blasted house to greet my company. He then turned around and walked to the stairs.

I was following him and hearing him before I saw him.

Then I recalled it was Wednesday, and Enrico Days were on Wednesday afternoons. We had a Wednesday afternoon coffee or beer or whatever appointment because he had Wednesday afternoons off because he worked Saturday mornings.

Shit.