Before he can respond, I hear the buzzing of a cell phone announcing a message. Sergio reaches into his pocket, reads the screen. He types something back then returns his gaze to me. His eyes, last night I’d thought they were black, but I see now they’re midnight blue with specks of gold in them. Like stars. Like a clear night sky with stars.

I take a deep breath in. He’s so close I can smell his aftershave.

Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Do I?” he asks.

He’s studying me and my heart is racing. I wonder if he can hear it. But then he’s reading another message. He’s preoccupied. His phone buzzes a third time. After reading that message, he mutters a curse under his breath. Texts something. Pushes his suit jacket back to tuck his hand into his pants pocket.

That’s when I see something glint, shiny and black in its holster under his arm.

“Do you have a gun with you?”

He doesn’t reply, just narrows one eye, weighing how to answer my question perhaps. Or trying to steal my memory, to know why he feels a familiarity.

“Did you bring a gun into my house?” I ask again.

“It’s not your house, remember?”

“Did you?”

“Would it scare you if I said yes?”

“You put one to my head yesterday.”

“Before I realized you were…you.”

“You scared me,” I admit.

He pauses. Wrinkles form around his eyes for a moment as if this is a revelation to him. “Do I scare you now?”

I don’t have to think about it. I shake my head. “No.”

“Good. Besides, guns are more part of your life than you think.”

“What do you mean?”

His phone buzzes again. It’s irritating to have him read his messages while he’s talking to me. He types a quick reply before giving me his attention, but I can see he’s distracted.

“Second amendment, sweetheart. The world you live in is a violent one. You’re just blissfully unaware.”

“Maybe that’s true for you, but not for me. I don’t deal with guns or the mob.”

“You’d be surprised.” He steps back. “I have to go.”

“Oh.” I’m oddly disappointed when he gestures to the bedroom door.

“I’ll take a raincheck on the coffee though.”

My shoulder brushes against his hard chest when I walk past him and out the door. I don’t look back as I descend the stairs, my heart still beating fast. In the kitchen, I look at the box containing the brand-new phone, wondering yet again how, twice in less than twenty-four hours, I find myself in a wholly surreal situation with Sergio Benedetti in the driver’s seat.

He opens the front door and a cold gust of wind blows in.