Alan pored over the list of his first day of interviews as he alternated sips of a morning cup of coffee with bites of his breakfast of an aged Cheddar bagel and cream cheese. Three of the names were familiar. Tar-Mor signed contracts with the companies in the past when they made shipments for large-scale projects. The company’s own trucks handled the regular smaller shipments, but large projects were beyond their capacity.

The fourth company, M-Trak, was unfamiliar, but the name of the man scheduled to represent them, Diego Flores, rang a bell. At first, Alan’s memory failed when he tried to remember where he’d heard the name. He finished the coffee, shrugged, and decided to move on to his other tasks for the morning.

Unfortunately, the mystery wouldn’t let go. Alan stood up from behind his desk and paced back and forth. His office space was bland and ordinary. It was a rectangular box with a small window in the back and a glass and steel desk. The window looked out over a vast employee parking lot. As Alan gazed out the window, the memory came back.

He whispered out loud, “No, it can’t be. There’s no way it can be the same Diego.”

Alan said the name out loud one more time and ascertained that both Diego and Flores were common Mexican names. There had to be countless businessmen with the same name. Alan exhaled, but his attempt to relax didn’t stop the memories from filling his head.

Alan spent two years in south Texas assisting immigrants with a wide range of problems encountered at the border. On one frightening evening, he escaped a drug-infested gun battle with a handsome Mexican at his side.

Alan didn’t know if it was the palpable hint of danger in the air or the raw physical attraction that was more to blame for the events of that night. Whatever the reason, he went to bed with a man named Diego Flores. They had feverish sex and fell asleep in each other’s arms only to wake in the morning and do it all over again before they went their separate ways.

Alan asked Diego if they could see each other again, but the answer came back in a flat tone of voice. “Connecting with my family would only hamper your good work. Most of the accusations against us are false, but some have a base in reality. Go back to your work, and I’ll return home to Veracruz.” Diego reached out and pulled Alan in close. He shared a kiss before saying, “We’ll both hold on to the memories. They are the treasure that lasts forever.”

The time spent with Diego soon faded into the back of Alan’s mind as he aggressively pursued his work. Eventually, the gun battles grew far too common, and he was forced to choose between relocating to a different border community or leaving Texas entirely.

After consultation with close friends and his supervisors, Alan fled to California. He worked there advocating for better housing in the San Francisco Bay area, and three years later, he took a new non-profit position in Pensacola, Florida. Alan’s adult life turned out to be as nomadic as his army brat childhood.

Alan worked in Des Moines, Iowa next. It was his first corporate job. He advanced into middle management in just three years. The work wasn’t exciting, but it was steady and brought in a sizable paycheck. Alan was living in Des Moines when his Auntie Erin shared the news of her decision to move out of her old two-story house in Coldbrook Bend.

At Alan’s suggestion, the family huddled in an online conversation to discuss the fate of the Coldbrook Bend house. His first thoughts about moving to such a small town were negative. It sounded like moving to the small town would make him an exile from the world at large, but a weekend road trip to visit Auntie Erin while she still lived in the house changed his mind.

Alan decided Coldbrook Bend might be the place to finally settle down into a permanent home. A few weeks later, he discovered a posting for the shipping supervisor at Tar-Mor on the company’s website. The circumstances came together in a way that he couldn’t ignore.

Packing up his basset hound Boomer, Alan rented a small truck for moving his belongings and arrived in Coldbrook Bend, Minnesota. The house had far too much space for just one person, but he hoped solo life was only temporary.

Alan’s assistant, Elaine, buzzed a call through. “Your first interview is here. Should I send him in?”

“I’ll meet him out at your desk.”

Alan had four hour-long interviews scheduled for the day, two in the morning and two in the afternoon. He wasn’t planning to make a hiring decision yet, but he hoped to remove at least one hopeful from the running and narrow the choice down to only two or three full proposals.

The two morning interviews were uneventful except for the fact that Alan was distracted. The name Diego Flores nagged at the back of his mind. Alan wondered if he should have done more investigation to figure out if it was the same Diego.

The internal conversations raged back and forth in the back of his mind while he tried to focus on the interviews. At one point, Alan spoke to the second interview subject and asked, “What is the mileage rate M-Trak would charge us?”

The middle-aged man with a craggy face asked, “M-Trak? That’s not us. That’s the Mexican up in Red Wing trying to push us out of business.”

Alan bit his lip. “Oh, excuse me. I have too many thoughts crossed in my head. I meant to say Ship-Mor.”

The Ship-Mor representative was confident when he first shook hands with Alan. He had a swagger in his walk. He was assertive, and he pushed Alan on details instead of the other way around until the name M-Trak dropped out of Alan’s mouth. Suddenly the man looked nervous and unsure. He said, “If you’re bringing in M-Trak, make sure you check their numbers. I never make unfounded accusations, but make sure that you check the details.”

* * *

Alan checked the clock on his computer. It read 3:00 p.m. on the dot when Elaine called and said, “Mr. Flores is here to see you.”

Feeling his palms begin to sweat, Alan answered, “I’ll be right out.” As he walked through the short hallway, Alan remembered the warnings the Ship-Mor representative gave him about Diego Flores. He knew there was room for a lower bid. Figures quoted from all three of the earlier interviews were somewhat high. Alan believed that he could bring the other applicants down in further negotiations, but, if rumors that Elaine heard were accurate, M-Trak might offer a more competitive bid from the beginning.

As he opened the door to the lobby of the Tar-Mor shipping department, Alan heard Elaine say, “Mr. Flores, this is Mr. Hansen.”

Diego’s voice was light and relaxed. He was finishing up the shreds of an earlier conversation with Elaine. He said, “And I’ll be sure to check that restaurant out the next time I’m in Red Wing.”

Alan barely heard the last words. His jaw dropped as he gaped at the subject for his final interview of the day. The bronze skin was as he remembered it. Eight years sharpened the angles at the jawline and cheekbones, but it was unmistakably the same Diego.

A broad smile spread across Diego’s face when he saw Alan. He didn’t appear shocked or disturbed in the least. Alan froze in place while Diego asked, “Are you going to invite me inside, or will we do the interview right here in the lobby?”

Alan’s cheeks filled with color as he invited Diego back to his office. He admitted, “I’m still in shock that it’s you. I’m right. It is you, isn’t it?”

Diego chuckled softly as he stepped up close behind. He reached a hand out and swept his fingers up the back of Alan’s head lacing them into Alan’s closely buzzed hair. “It’s me, and it’s you. What happens next?”

They stepped inside the simple office, and Alan pushed the door shut. Feeling flustered, he said, “I had questions to ask, but I’m not sure I remember them. Give me a moment, and I’ll pull it up on the computer.”

While Alan seated himself behind the desk, Diego walked around the room shaking his head. “You deserve so much more than this. You’re easily the most attractive object in the room.”

Alan pounded the keys on his computer. His fingers trembled, and a prickly sensation raced up his spine when he observed Diego staring at his hands. Diego stepped behind the desk chair and put his hands on Alan’s shoulders. “We have business to conduct,” whispered Alan.

Diego gripped Alan’s shoulders and then ran his long, thin, nimble fingers down over Alan’s chest. He whispered, “We have so much unfinished business.”

Alan stifled a groan and spoke slowly with careful diction. “I’m curious whether you’ve worked out a standard mileage rate and what that might cost us.”

Diego nipped at Alan’s right ear. “You’re doing an admirable job of concentrating. I’ll match and beat whatever rates my competitors have presented. I want this contract.” He kneaded Alan’s chest and added, “There are few things I’ve wanted more than…you’re contract.”

Alan swallowed hard. His brain slammed him back into the memories of what happened seven years ago. He fought against the searing hot lava flow of lust erupting from inside his gut. It wasn’t all about the raw, edgy allure of Diego himself. It was the fact that Diego craved him. No one else ever pursued him like Diego. It could have all been mere flattery, but Alan felt the impact much deeper in his gut.

Catching his breath, Alan gestured toward the chair on the opposite side of his desk. “Please…sit.” He heard the desperation in his voice, and he was sure Diego heard it, too.

Light, almost musical laughter fell from Diego’s lips. “Okay, I’ll pull myself away and play by the rules.” He stepped around the side of the desk, never taking his eyes off Alan’s body, seated himself, and crossed his legs in a deliberate, gentlemanly fashion. Before Alan could proceed with the interview, Diego asked, “Do you live here in Zephyr?”

Alan shook his head. He didn’t want to share a host of personal details with Diego, but he didn’t want to antagonize a potential business ally either. “I live up in Coldbrook Bend.”

“For how long? You were only in Texas temporarily when we met if memory serves.”

Alan nodded. He said, “We’re asking for formal proposals from only three firms, and I can congratulate you on making it to that stage, Mr. Flores.” He stared at his computer screen as he spoke. He could not look his interview subject in the eye without uttering his first name, “Diego.”

Diego gestured around the room and asked, “Is it a house as beautiful as this? Or is it something different?”

Alan raised his eyes. “My great-aunt moved to an assisted living facility. I moved into her old house. It’s on the opposite side of the street from the houses that line the river bluff.” He bit his lip and stopped himself from divulging any more information.

Diego leaned forward demonstrating an interest in the shared data. “This might be a little forward of me, but I’ve been considering purchasing a house up in Red Wing. I’m intrigued by the older homes that look out over the grand river. Would it be possible to see your family’s home?”

The request was not only forward, but it was also astonishingly transparent. Alan looked down at his keyboard. He failed at trying to tame the desires burning inside his gut. History was repeating itself. They ended up in bed the first time that Diego invited himself into Alan’s personal space.

With his heart thumping in his chest, Alan placed his hands firmly on his desk, looked Diego in the eye and failed to speak with authority. “I can’t decide about that right now. Please focus on the business for now. We can talk about the rest later.”