Page 15 of The Fighter

Huh. No quips about attempting to poison him. Something must be wrong. “How’s it going?”

“Your ex is a criminal, and your bookkeeper is so bad at her job that it’s offensive. This is the worst record-keeping I’ve seen in a while.”

“I wouldn’t call Simon an ex.” My brain catches up with my mouth. “Wait a second, how do you know Simon and I dated?”

“I do my research.”

“And this research involves looking into a vacation fling that happened two years ago?”

“I’m very thorough.”

“Thorough? I believe the word you’re looking for is nosy. What else do you know about me?”

“Very little, unfortunately,” he replies. “My usual source is busy with other, more pressing projects. I’ve had to do my own research.”

My traitorous brain conjures up an image of a naked Tomas settling himself between my legs, ready to do his own research. I’m very thorough, he says, and then brings me to several screaming orgasms.

He’s your partner, you idiot, I tell myself sternly, making myself quell the stab of desire that runs through me. Stop picturing him naked.

“Well, Simon wasn’t my ex. Ex suggests… feelings.” I don’t know why I’m even telling Tomas this. “My mother died a few days before Christmas a couple of years ago. I needed something to take my mind off things, and Simon was there.” I shrug. “I don’t hate myself for sleeping with him, but I do hate myself for going into business with him.”

I look up to find him surveying me with those maddening gray eyes. “Your mother died,” he says softly. “You were grieving, and Groff took advantage of you. Don’t hate yourself, Alina. Save that emotion for him.”

All the air seems to have left the room. I stare at Tomas for a long moment. Have his lips always been this full? This inviting? There’s a tiny scar just under his lower lip—one I’ve never noticed before. I wonder how he got it. My fingers itch to touch it, and I clench my hand into a fist.

This is madness. I need to snap out of this insanity. Now, before I do something I’ll regret forever.

“I’m happy to hate Simon,” I agree, taking a step back to widen the distance between us. Of course, the room is so small that my ass hits my chair. I stumble and nearly fall face-first into Tomas’s lap. “After all, he saddled me with you.” I smile to rob the words of their sting. “Still, the money seems real, and Marcelo is finally fixing the showers, so maybe it isn’t all bad. As long as you don’t blatantly come onto every woman in the gym, you’ll be an improvement.”

“You just paid me a compliment.” His lips curl up at the corners. “It was grudging, yes, but it was still a compliment. I’ll treasure this moment forever.”

Competent as hell, plus a sense of humor?

I’m in so much trouble.

11

ALINA

On Wednesday, Tomas loses the suit jacket and the tie and comes into the gym with his shirt sleeves casually rolled up to his forearms. Sara and River are not the only two members to stare as he strides into the foyer as if he owns the space.

“Here.” I hand him a cup of coffee. I’m in a fantastic mood this morning. True to his word, Marcelo was done by the time I opened. The new showers look amazing. They painted the foyer and even brought in heavy-duty fans to ventilate the space so the smell of new paint wouldn’t be overwhelming. I’m so happy that I’m even feeling civil toward Tomas. The paint fumes must be going to my head. “I didn’t know how you take it, so I got it black. Like your soul, probably.”

“Good morning to you too, Alina,” he says with a grin. “I hate to disappoint you, but I drink my coffee disgustingly sweet. Not just sugar but sweetened condensed milk levels of sweet.”

“Sweetened condensed milk?”

“It’s a Valencian thing,” he says. “It’s called café bombon. Sadly, I can’t find a single coffee shop in Venice that makes it.”

“Because it sounds awful,” I tell him with a shudder. “Still, that much sugar will make it easier to hide the taste of rat poison. Valencia is home then?”

“Google didn’t satisfy your curiosity? Yes, I grew up there. I moved to Venice five years ago.”

“Your Italian is very good.” I’m not being nosy, I tell myself. I’m just learning about my new partner.

His lips twitch. “You make it sound like an accusation, Alina. My mother is Italian, my father Spanish. I speak both languages. What else do you want to know?”

Too much. I want to know everything about Tomas Aguilar, and that’s a big problem. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in shirtsleeves. What happened to your suit today?” Another stray thought strikes me. “Doesn’t your boss care that you’ve been here instead of at work every day this week, by the way?”

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