Addie Lacoe: Mona

“If I might make an observation, Ms. Klein,” Mr. Bartlett said. “I don’t think Mr. Leon was making an idle gesture.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see what you mean.”

“You don’t need to see,” Enrique said. He lifted her hand from where it hung limp at her side and laid it on his cheek, leaning so close that she could hear the rustle of his shirt’s ruffles.

She felt his pulse pounding beneath his ear.

She shouldn’t be touching him like this. His skin was smooth and taut over his clenched jaw.

They hadn’t signed the proper papers. He was without the mustache that she’d imagined.

They were doing this right in front of Mr. Bartlett. Enrique’s nostrils flared as she brushed his nose.

She ran her fingertips along his widow’s peak and over the crease between his brows, lingering over his eyelids, feeling the orbs flit beneath the lids. Somehow she trusted him. “Is your hair black?” she whispered.

“Does it matter to you?”

“If it did, would you lie to me?”

“I would if you wanted me to,” he said.

He was nothing like she’d expected. The discovery made her tremble.