My tone was teasing, and from the way his mouth turned up, I could tell Elias totally got my joke. “Well, lots of farenji want to go and eat kitfo—it’s raw beef with spices, like steak tartare. They always say if they take medicine, they won’t get sick from eating it. They take the medicine and still get sick. That happens a lot.” He shook his head in amused confusion as I chuckled.

“I can assure you that won’t be me. I don’t eat beef. I guess I’ll just get drunk and try to speak in bad Amharic.”

He let out a laugh at that, his deep voice full of humor when he spoke. “This also happens a lot.”

Oh man, he was so sexy.

Elias drove us through a particularly tricky intersection, and I used the quiet moment to take him in. He was wearing a gray fleece with the Aid USA logo on the breast pocket, and a thick leather bracelet watch that made his hands look like a warrior’s or something. He was also perfectly groomed. The nails of his strong hands were clipped and buffed, like he’d had a manicure. He was clean-shaven, but his hair was long enough that he needed to pull it back with an elastic band. It looked like a halo of tight curls around his head.

I realized that I’d been staring for way longer than could be considered polite, and turned my attention to looking out the window and getting familiar with the place I’d been tied to from before birth. Addis had seen an economic boom in the last fifteen years and the city was expanding, but as we got farther out, we saw less concrete.

An hour into the drive, we began passing mountains and green hills, each stretching as far as the eye could see. We also passed vendors by the side of the road. Women with babies strapped to their backs sat by tables full of huge honeycombs or bottles of water. I even spotted a few roadside artists.

It was beautiful, all of it. The sky was so big here. Huge boulders dotted the landscape, and occasionally we would see patches of flowering cacti lining the road.

Once it looked like we had gotten past the heavier traffic, Elias turned to me. “Do you want to put on some music? I have a cord here if you have your phone.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, not wanting to subject him to my music. “We can play what you like, since you’re the one driving. I’m pretty open—I’ll listen to anything. If it’s good.” I winked.

He chuckled at my attempt at humor. “I have very particular music taste. You may not like it.”

“Uh-huh. So tell me, what do you listen to?”