Page 39 of Riordan's Revenge

Eduardo gave a cry of pain and thumped the wall.

He rattled a framed photo that Alexia stared at and the camera zoomed in on as if it was scandalous. Two men, arms around each other in clear familiarity. The lover and another, older guy.

“Who’s in the picture?” Riordan asked.

“It’s her husband. A younger version. Check the identi-moustache.”

“That’s Dirk? In Eduardo’s house? How do they know each other?”

I smiled as Alexia shrieked the same question.

“What is this? How do you know this man?”

Eduardo frowned, drawing in two oddly perfect eyebrows. “That’s my father.”

“Plot twist!” I took a shocked breath.

He laughed under his breath. “The woman clearly has a type.”

“Derek is my father, but we were estranged for most of my life,” Eduardo revealed. “He works out of the country, so we’ve only met a few times. I’ll get to see him again when he returns home soon. Why?”

Alexia slid to the floor, digging her fingers into her perfectly styled hair as she whispered to herself. “One month. I ruined my life for one month of him, and it’s cost me everything.” Then she froze and lifted her gaze. “What do you mean ‘Derek’? That isn’t his name.”

Adverts rolled at a break in the show.

A scenario played out in my head, distracting me so I forgot to skip to the next part of the episode. In the telenovela, they’d given their affair a time limit. All the fun but with an expiry date. That brought drama, but only because the scriptwriters had tricks up their sleeves.

I was the author of my own life. I knew what I wanted, and that had narrowed in on two major points. The role I wanted at the warehouse. And Riordan. I wanted him more than I wanted air in my lungs and blood in my veins.

On the coffee table was my stack of papers, my closed notebook on top. Annoyance rippled along the path of my certainty. That summary I’d written told me this wasn’t real. My therapy suggested Riordan was an obsession that would burn out. I hated the idea I could hurt him if this ever got off the ground.

Riordan made a sound of frustration and grabbed the remote, stabbing to pause the TV.

“Aren’t we continuing?” Weakly, I pointed at the screen.

“No.”

I rolled my head on the cushion to stare at him. Words stuck in my mouth.

He worked his jaw. “Tell me you’re not obsessed with me.”

Oh fuck. He’d been thinking about it, too. I swallowed. “I am, but what I feel is fake.”

“Describe it.”

“What?”

“Exactly what you feel for me.”

“Hell no.”

The opposite of fear. The source of all things sweet.

I went to leap up from the sofa. Riordan grabbed me by the waist and hooked me back. I landed next to him with wide-eyed alarm, then braced a hand to his broad chest.

Every small touch was shocking. Every push-and-pull interaction somehow vital.

Slowly I withdrew my hand.

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