I’m not quite there yet tonight, but, thanks to the bottle of something old and expensive I swiped from Don de Sonza’s wine cellar, by the time I arrive at Esmeralda’s I’m well on my way. My desire is simple. I want to erase the memory of that afternoon. The kiss in the orange grove. The sensation of my lips against hers. It happened hours ago, but I can still feel them. Warm, soft, and a little dry. If I don’t destroy that memory, I will carry it around with me, haunted by it. Enough wine should do the trick. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

The fuzziness of my thoughts is why I don’t immediately recognize the person I slam into as I make my way inside.

“Watch it, ass—”

“Ana?”

The familiarity of that voice makes me stop dead in my tracks. It’s masculine, but there’s something about it that makes me think of Kiki. I blink, my vision already starting to blur a bit at the man who said my name.

“Alejandro?”

He’s staring down at me, brow pinched. There’s a smudge of what looks like rouge on his cheek. Not really surprising. After all, this is a brothel. I spot a few of his friends behind him, tugging on their coats as they prepare to depart, looking for a new place to sully with their presence.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask.

It’s a silly question. Again, brothel.

He waves his hand as if swatting my question right out of the air. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you at home all day.”

I shrug. Behind me, some lout who can’t hold his drink retches into a ditch. It’s true. I threw on a pair of boots and breeches and hightailed it away from home right after making a complete fool of myself. But then, was it ever really my home? Or was I just sleeping under a borrowed roof until the rich family who owned it got bored of me? Everything in it reminds me of Kiki. Every corridor, every corner.

“What can I say? I’ve had better things to do.” I peer around Alejandro’s bulk, looking for Rosalita, but there are too many people blocking my view of the inside of the house.

Ale makes a sound deep in his throat. Exactly the sort of sound Kiki makes when she disapproves of something I’ve done. Usually, something uncouth, like eating meat with my bare hands. Why dirty a perfectly good fork when you don’t have to?

“Kiki loves you, you know.”

It is the wrong thing to say.