Page 42 of The Enforcer

I cringe.

“You can thank me later.”

“An hour?”

“If you faint from heatstroke. If not,” he shrugs, “he can go all night.”

“Well, hey, now…” I start to say with a smile on my face.

Alfonso rolls his eyes and turns away, trying to hide his grin, but I see it.

I don’t know why I find that so endearing, except that it reminds me of Kevin in its innocence. Something like grief hits me right in the chest. Alfonso sees my face fall, and he squints at me — I feel as if he’s done that a lot in barely a day. He doesn’t say anything, thankfully, but he looks as if he wants to.

Someone yells from the house, ripping whatever this moment was into shreds.

I turn to see Ugo heading toward a door, but Alfonso grabs me at the elbow and pulls me around the house. “There’s a small house we use for unexpected visitors. Ugo uses it most nights. You can freshen up there.”

He walks me into a building that could be called a shack by someone who loved it. I do not. “Wait,” I say.

I hear a commotion behind me and turn.

Alfonso takes advantage of my distracted attention to drag me into the shack. Thankfully, it’s much less terrifying on the inside. In fact, for some enterprising mountain man — and by that, I mean a white man who always has homemade jerky and fruit leather in their backpack, probably — this would be a dream home. It’s little more than a micro-studio, though.

On one side of the room is a full-size bed built into the wall; a rectangle of wood juts out as a bedside table. Next to the table is a kitchenette that takes up the compact corner nearest the door. Actually, describing it as a kitchenette might be too generous. There’s one burner set into the counter, an electric kettle, and a small French press. Above this setup are two open shelves with two plates, bowls, mugs, and wine glasses on one, while the other is bare. Directly diagonal to the kitchen is what looks like a bathroom or wet room. It would have to be; it’s so small.

There’s a square of space in the center of the room, kept neat and clean, and Alfonso and I occupy it all. This is a room meant for one person, and it should feel crowded with the two of us crammed in here. Hell, I should feel crowded with Alfonso looming over me.

But I don’t.

“Oh,” I breathe, looking around again, pretending as if Alfonso’s closeness hasn’t made the sweat pouring from my body intensify.

“Ugo renovated it a few years ago,” he tells me. I wasn’t thinking about that, but okay.

“Is there anything he can’t do?”

A proud smile graces his lips. “No.” He drops his backpack onto the bench near the door. “Your clothes,” he said.

I’d wondered why he’d told me to bring another outfit but had just assumed that we might be spending the night, which in hindsight was naïve. But in my defense, I have never in my fucking life had a reason to climb over two hundred steps in a single day before.

And I never want to have a reason to do that again.

“I brought some toiletries,” he says. “Take your time.”

He doesn’t mean it that way, but dear Lord, the things my body does when he says those three words shouldn’t be allowed, especially not less than a week after a breakup.

We make eye contact. He recognizes my reaction and smiles. But he doesn’t capitalize on this moment, much to my relief — or maybe disappointment. Instead, he brushes past me out the door and leaves me alone in this small room that, without him, somehow feels just a little too big.

Alfonso

Things that shouldn’t be allowed: Zoe, flushed face, dewy, beautiful, temptation in one thick form.

Things that this already confused trip doesn’t need: my dick, heavy and hard in my pants every time I make the mistake of getting too close to her.

Things that push my fraying nerves near the breaking point: my mother, rounding the side of the house and rushing toward me.

Well, at least the problem in my trousers is fixed.

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