Page 15 of Sworn to My Heart
It’s about time.
Alin
I spent the following week with my easel, often visiting my usual café near home where I continue to sketch in pencil. I feel myself improving, even contemplating taking up drawing and painting as a serious hobby. It’s a good way to pass the time. Today, I decide to return to the café, bringing along my sketchbook and pencils. Compared to other days, the small café is nearly empty. The sunset outside paints the sky with vibrant colors, casting warm hues through the expansive glass windows that line my favorite spot, creating a cozy atmosphere. I order a latte and settle at a small table by the window.
Lost in my thoughts, I absentmindedly doodle on the page until the waitress arrives with my coffee, breaking my reverie. I smile gratefully at her and glance down at the notebook. My heart skips a beat when I realize I’ve drawn Luca’s face, the scar across his eyebrow vividly portrayed. I stare at it, trying to convince myself it could be anyone else, but deep down, I know the truth. I tear the page from the notebook, crumple it, and shift my thoughts to the sea, the waves, the dolphins—anything to calm myself.
I start drawing again, this time with intense focus. I feel like I’ve spent hours here as I proudly look at the finished pencil drawing. I’ve drawn the entrance gate to my city. NotManhattan, my underwater city. I remember it clearly, and it was always a subject of admiration from every other mermaid colony that visited us. I glance at the drawing, letting the memory wash over me. Suddenly, I feel someone’s gaze on me from across the table, watching me.
I look up, meeting a familiar pair of eyes.
“What are you doing here?” I ask impatiently, trying to ignore the way my body responds to his presence. His gray eyes sparkle despite the dimming light of the evening.
“Is that how you greet a man who waited here for a whole hour, with you not even acknowledging his presence?” He replies in a teasing tone, raising an eyebrow. I want to scold my body for its betrayal. Now that I’m not drunk and sitting so close to him, I realize he’s not just handsome; he’s the embodiment of masculinity, at least in appearance.
“That is how I greet a man whose presence I don’t want here in the first place,” I retort sarcastically, but my body thinks otherwise.
“Your cheeky mouth needs some discipline, but it seems your body knows exactly what it wants,” he responds smugly, showing me the previous sketch of his eyes, unfolded but still crumpled.
Damn, he wins this round. It seems I’m not the only one who can read people so well. I need to get out of here before my body ignites. I carefully rise from my seat and look at him.
“This conversation has been truly delightful, but I have to go,” I announce sarcastically, but he grabs my hand.
“Sit,” he commands. His amused look quickly turns back to his icy, threatening gaze, and I realize that any attempt to leave now would only make things worse for me later, so I sit quietly and return his expressionless look.
“You didn’t reply to my message,” he suddenly remarks after asilence that feels very long and awkward.
“After such a long pause, I thought you’d come up with something a lot smarter to say than stating a fact we both already know,” I respond with a sly glance.
I don’t know why I enjoy irritating him so much.
I immediately see his expression change, a vein in his forehead looks like it’s about to burst from whatever thoughts are racing through this man’s mind. But he seems to regain full composure in a moment. His control over his emotions amazes me.
“Yes, we definitely need to do something about your cheeky mouth, and I think I know exactly what to do with it,” he replies, his eyes gleaming, and I don’t like where he’s heading. It seems vulgar talk runs in their family.
I retort in kind, “It seems all you know how to do is talk. Maybe you’re not that good with your mouth either.”
He immediately rises from his chair, which falls backward from the force, strides toward me, and pins me against the window. The chair swings back, and I cling to him as I rise up.
He brings his lips close to mine like a predator teasing its prey. It’s the first time I’ve smelled him up close like that, and I admit, his scent gives me tingles all over my body, a mix of his musky cologne with a hint of mint.
I’m not afraid of him, but my body trembles at his touch. It’s as if he could sense his prey’s reactions, presses against me harder this time, and I can feel his hard erection through his pants. My body comes alive, and I stop thinking rationally, waiting for his next move.
“Take my word, Alin, when I say something, it happens. There’s nothing in this world I want and can’t attain,” he whispers close to my ear. I know he’s talking about me, but my mind has already surrendered to his touch, and my breath becomes heavier.
I see the hunger in his eyes and lean closer to his lips, but he suddenly releases me and steps back, leaving me needy and disappointed, and returns to his seat.
I pull my chair back to its place and sit down, unable to ignore the disappointment piercing my chest and the throbbing between my legs. I was sure he wanted me. Cora was right.
“Now, after we’ve clarified that important point, I need to take care of my dear sister-in-law and find out exactly who Alin Gray is,” he says in a low, threatening tone.
“Your dear sister-in-law happens to be my best friend. She’s in safe hands without you needing to know who Alin Gray is,” I reply in the same tone and continue, “If you didn’t get the hint when I ignored your message, let me make it a bit clearer for you. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. That’s how it will stay.”
It seems he anticipates my second attempt to leave the café and grips my hand, this time firmly and I realize this conversation won’t end anytime soon.
“I am Luca Spallo, 31 years old, Italian-American, grew up in New York, mostly in Manhattan,” he suddenly states his dry life details.
I respond in kind, “I am Alin Gray, 26, adopted, and I grew up in New Jersey before moving to Manhattan a few months ago.”
