Page 30 of The Last Sunrise

“I brought you breakfast.” He holds up a brown paper bag. “It’s probably not as good now, and isn’t warm, but—” I grab the bag from him and stop him from continuing.

“I can’t wait to try it.” I smile, plopping down onto the couch and patting the empty space next to me.

“Okay, so we’ve gotensaïmada, which is sweet and has a pretty fucked-up story behind it, but I’ll save that for another day.” He pulls out a thick, swirly bread with a coating of sugar dusted on top.

“Goes perfect with coffee, but that’s also cold. Sorry.” He smiles, handing me the cup.

“I love cold coffee. I’m a twentysomething American girl, remember? We live for an iced coffee. Okay, what else you got in there?”

He lays out a napkin and sets the first pastry down to dig back into the grease-stained bag. My stomach grumbles. I love anything sweet, and adding bread on top of that—my favorite.

“Okay, so this one is a pan de payas. Super traditional, savory but fucking good. This one has garlic and salt flakes on it. And last, but not least…” He sets that one down and reaches back into the bag. “We’ve got a sort of baguette, in case you’re a picky eater. I got two of each, too, in case you’re starving.”

“Wow, thank you. I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long,” I say, breaking off a piece of the sugarcoated one.

“It’s okay. You didn’t know I was coming, and the sun is brutal today, so I’m not in a hurry to get out on the water.”

I shove the bread into my mouth and look at him, taking in the cuts and callouses on his hardworking hands and forearms.

“I was talking to the bread,” I tease, with a mouthful of thick, fluffy, salty bread.

“Your charm is really something today.” He tosses me a smile, tearing at the food with his teeth.

I wink at him. “Aw, thanks.”

We eat in mostly silence, and I down my room-temperature coffee. It’s smooth and, like he said, is perfect with the bread. I try each of them, saving the baguette for last, then back to the second sweet bread as Julián watches me, seemingly enjoying watching me eat as much as I’m enjoying devouring it.

He hands me his coffee when mine is empty. “Thank you. I guess I was more hungry than I thought.”

“My pleasure.”

A family passes by us in the lobby, the two children swatting at each other as the mother tries to break them up, while the father is oblivious on his phone. I would hate that type of marriage. It would be like being married to my mother, never getting their full attention. At least with my mom, she’s working. This guy looks like he might just be watching a damn football match.

“Truth is, Ry, I was desperate to see you. I could barely sleep, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus at work today if I didn’t see you even for a moment.”

His words catch me off guard and I choke a little, coughing as he pats my back. “Sorry, not trying to have you choke to death.”

“You’re in a… mood today,” I note, pressing my shoulder against his.

I am unsure and unable to express how much I love this mood, this open, sarcastic, communicative, desperate-to-see-me mood.

“I took my meds.” He laughs, licking his lips.

My scalp pricks a little, thinking about mine.

“Ha. Ha,” I say, not sure if he’s joking.

“Oh, I got sugar all over myself.” I wipe my hands over the tiny white dots across my chest. He raises his hand to help me, gently pressing against my breasts with a napkin.

I take in a big breath through clenched teeth, trying to focus on the slow drum of the lobby music, but it’s nearly impossible with the way he’s touching me so casually. The air in the lobby shifts, and my breath staggers as his movement slows. Knowing exactly what he’s doing, he looks up at me and takes the tip of his index finger and brushes it against my bare skin at the top of my neckline, tracing the square shape of the fabric. Goose bumps rise on my skin; I feel like I’m going to jump out of it. The urge to lean in and close the gap between us and kiss him is stronger than the afternoon tide.

His thumb and forefinger pick up my necklace, toying with it gently, rubbing the pad of his finger over the ridges on the surface of the small seashell. As he clicks it open, I reach my hand up, covering his and lowering it back down. For the first time, I notice his hands are not only calloused but also covered in small scars in the shape of small slices, reaching from the back of his palm up his arms, stopping just below his elbows. Some as thin as a papercut and some as wide as a rope string.

“Does that locket have a photo of your boyfriend back home? Is that why you don’t want me to see it?” He cocks a brow, doubt carving into his forehead even though his tone is playful, unbothered.

“Yeah, my kids too,” I quip back.

The ache of something I’ll never be able to have digs at my insides, but out of habit and a lot of practice, I push it away. A tight smile replaces the heartache.

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