“You didn’t have to come up.” Annoyed, Abena shoved open the door and let them both in.

The buzz from back at the club was now pretty much gone, thanks to the ride from the venue to her home, located not too far from the bay. She purchased this place after working for Esteban a year. There were two bedrooms and two baths set up in a roommate plan with a large living room and not-so-large kitchen in the center.

In the hustle and bustle of Miami life, her home was an oasis, a true respite from the daily grind of life, and it made her feel restful once she settled in each day. Brown, black, and white pillows in African motifs lined the camel-colored sofa against the left wall and the one perpendicular to it, both of which she picked up for a steal during a furniture store’s going-out-of-business sale.

“Are these your parents?” Santiago asked, peering at a photo in the center of a huge white bookcase that included books and other knickknacks, like three white-and-blue-beaded Namji dolls from Cameroon, and a series of decorative wooden bowls from Ghana.

“Yes. My father and mother, before I was born.” They stood unsmiling, their somber faces staring into the camera’s lens, in front of a simple brick home painted white.

Santiago dropped onto the sofa and surveyed the living room, spreading his arms across the back of the furniture. His gaze landed on the paintings of two African women balancing baskets on their heads, both dressed in colorful, flowing outfits.

“This is nice,” he said.

“Are you planning to stay?” Abena asked.

“Considering I saved you from certain ravishment, I would think you’d be a little bit more appreciative, and a lot kinder to me. Perhaps offer me something to drink.”

“We’re not at the office. Get your own drink. Help yourself to what’s in the refrigerator. I’m going to change into something more comfortable.”

In the bedroom, Abena slipped on a pair of lightweight cotton pants, a gray long-sleeved shirt, and slippers. Much more comfortable, she padded out of the room to find Santiago on his way from the kitchen to the living room with a can of Coke in his hand.

He paused. “Usually, when a woman says she’s going to change into something more comfortable…” The words trailed off suggestively.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” She went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “I’m going to have something to eat. Are you hungry?” She set a few containers on the counter.

“Not really.” Santiago peeped over the bar as she began to scoop soup into a wide-mouth bowl. “What is that?”

“Leftovers. Okra soup with banku and jollof rice.” She stopped spooning the thick stew into the bowl. “Would you like some?”

“I would love some.”

“You said you weren’t hungry.”

“Changed my mind.”

“You surprise me.” Abena took down another bowl.

“Are you insulting me?” She heard him snap open the can of Coke.

“Not at all. It’s a compliment.” She filled the second bowl with the stew. “You’d be surprised how many people won’t at least try something different because they’re not familiar with it.” She lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug.

“Those people aren’t like us. They don’t live their lives centered around food and eating.”

Those people aren’t like us. She liked the way those words sounded. As if they were a team—part of a secret club with an exclusive membership.

She warmed the meals in the microwave and, with Santiago’s help, they took the food and a glass of ice water for her out to the balcony. From here, they had a great view overlooking the city and the bay, with the lights from boats in the distance. Up this high, the night air was cool and the sounds of the city were distant and dull. Abena loved this view. It made her feel as if she were on top of the world.

She spooned rice from a bowl in the center of the table onto the stew.

“This is really good,” Santiago said. He’d left his jacket on the sofa and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing strong, veined forearms dusted with hair. “I could eat the rice by itself. What’s it called again? Lo—”

“Jollof rice,” Abena corrected.

“Jollof rice,” he repeated.

Abena smiled. His Spanish pronunciation sounded cute.

“Why are you smiling?”

“No reason,” she replied.

“Am I eating it correctly?”

“There is no wrong way to eat it. You eat it like rice, but I like to put mine into the stew.”

They ate and drank in silence for a few minutes.

“What’s in this?” Santiago started eating directly from the main bowl.

“Ei! Don’t eat it all!” Abena said with a laugh.

He dragged the bowl to his side of the table and continued to eat.

She shook her head. “Garlic, tomatoes, onions. My aunt made it.”

“Do you know how to make it?”

“Of course.”

“So you know how, but don’t, because your aunt does it for you.”

“Something like that. She likes to give me home-cooked food.”

“So you’re spoiled?”

“I am not spoiled,” Abena said, appalled.

“Sounds spoiled to me. No one makes me home-cooked food.”

Beneath the teasing, she sensed unhappiness in the words, but Abena continued the playful banter. She cut her eyes at him. “I like it better when we’re fighting.”

“No, you don’t.” Santiago finished chewing, watching her from across the table. Then he hooked his foot around the strip of metal connecting the front legs of the chair. It scraped along the concrete as he dragged her nearer.

A flutter of awareness invaded Abena’s stomach, making her suddenly breathless. “You think you know me so well.” She put a spoonful of stew in her mouth.

“I know you very well.” His voice had dropped to a silky tone. When he smiled at her, the traitorous flutter expanded.

They finished eating, neither of them leaving a grain of rice or an ounce of stew in the bowls.

Santiago patted his stomach. “Delicious. A perfect midnight snack.”

“It’s rather late to be eating such a heavy meal, but you’re from Argentina. You guys eat dinner late anyway.”

He chuckled. “Not this late. Was there ginger in the soup?”

She nodded. “You have a very discerning palate.”

“Of course. I have to in our business.”

Before she knew what he was about to do, Santiago lifted her foot from the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Touching your feet.” He removed the slipper and examined her toes. “Such pretty feet. The toes always painted, the soles kissably soft.” She’d recently had a pedicure. Her toes were painted red.

Keeping his eyes trained on hers, Santiago bent his head and pressed his mouth to her insole.

Abena swallowed. The flutter was long gone. A full-blast hurricane blew out of control inside of her now. “You make it hard to resist you,” she whispered. Her voice trembled.

“Then stop resisting.” He massaged the sole of her foot. His touch was at once casually comforting, yet erotic. She curled her toes as his thumb moved against her arch.

Tears filled her eyes. “I—”

Santiago stopped. He released her foot and leaned forward. “Abena.”

She had no idea why she’d become so emotional. She waved him away. “It’s nothing.”

“What’s wrong?”

She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. After taking a hefty breath, she whispered, “I feel like my life is falling apart.”

“Why?”

She swiped away a tear. “My mother isn’t pleased I broke off my engagement.”

“So you live your life for your mother?”

She laughed shortly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Abena heaved a heavy sigh. Studying her lap, she considered which words to use, which words would adequately convey the turmoil inside her. Strange, sitting here sharing her innermost thoughts and feelings with the last person she ever expected to share them with.

Finally, she lifted her gaze. She saw no judgment in his eyes. Only a desire to understand, and that encouraged her to speak frankly. “She gave up so much for me to be here. She sold everything, and I owe her my life. This life.” She waved a hand at the building. The sense of obligation, the weight of needing to do better, be better, and make her mother proud filled her thoughts on an almost daily basis. “She’s hard on me because she wants me to succeed. And she’s very old-fashioned and set in her ways.”

“And you? What do you want?” Santiago asked gently.

Abena shrugged. She thought she knew, but wasn’t sure anymore.

“Living your life for someone who is thousands of miles away is not a good idea.”

“So I should only worry about myself and my feelings? It’s unrealistic to think we can live our lives like that. What we do and say affects other people.” Her foot rested comfortably on his thigh, and one big, tanned hand gently clasped her ankle.

“I can’t tell you what to do. I’ve made plenty of mistakes myself.” Santiago ran a hand down his face. He laughed softly. “Remember the manager I told you about, the one I used to work for?”

Abena nodded.

“We used to be lovers. My career is fulfilling and I enjoy the challenge every day, but I can’t deny that part of why I started on this career path was because I needed to prove her wrong.”

“You wanted to rub your success in her face.”

“Sí,” he said wearily.

“I feel the same way sometimes. I want to prove my mother wrong. Show her I can be successful without following her strict rules and guidelines. I just…I don’t want to hurt her. Not after all she’s done for me.” Abena fell quiet for a moment. Cars honked in the distance far below. “I wanted her approval so much, I stayed with a man I knew she’d approve of.” She swallowed.

“So you don’t miss him?” His voice sounded oddly strained and guarded.

“No. I don’t miss him. I didn’t love him like I should have.” She looked up.

“You behave like someone who is guilty of a crime.”

“I feel guilty.” She laughed softly. “I wasted his time, I wasted my time. I disappointed a lot of people.” She shook her head. “And I hurt him. I just want to do the right thing.”

His thumb carefully rubbed her ankle, and her skin came alive under the soft touch.

“But it’s more fun to do the wrong thing, isn’t it?” Santiago asked.

“Yes. Being with you would be the wrong thing.”

“I’m not as terrible as you think, Abena.”

“No, I mean…” She frowned, formulating the words in her head. She didn’t want to offend him. “My mother and family back home would never approve of you.”

“Why not?” Santiago asked.

“You’re not Ghanaian or African, and she wouldn’t approve because of this.” She rubbed a finger over his lighter skin. “She’s from a little village. She wouldn’t understand. The ancestors wouldn’t approve.” She could practically hear her mother chastising her.

Santiago closed his fingers around her hand. “Again, what do you want?”

“What do you want?” She reversed the question back to him.

“You,” he said immediately. “I am unable to hide it.” He rubbed her foot over the hard bulge in his crotch.

She swallowed.

“What do you want, Abena? To live your life according to someone else’s rules forever? To worry about pleasing them instead of pleasing yourself?”

“No,” she whispered, stomach tightening as she tiptoed to the edge of an honest declaration. “I want you. I want to touch you and kiss you.” Her breath came in shorter, tighter gasps. “I want to lose myself.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Abena closed her eyes. Because my feelings for you will break me. She knew that without a doubt. What she felt for him was dangerously strong already. It wouldn’t take much for her to fall head over heels.

“Abena,” he whispered, a bit of roughness in his voice.

She opened her eyes and locked gazes with him.

“I want you, but I need to be absolutely certain you want me, too,” he said.

“I do want you. Absolutely. For certain.”

She knew his touch, and the taste of his mouth. The memory of her first, not self-induced orgasm, made her body heat like an oven. Two years ago, in the office, he’d owned her with his mouth alone. He’d shoved her skirt up around her hips, coaxed her into removing her underwear, and spread her legs with ease. She could still feel his mouth. Still experienced the tug of his lips as he sucked her clit, pitching her high before she plummeted to the depths of ecstasy.

“A taste of more to come,” he’d promised. She’d anticipated it. Wanted it with a type of desperation she’d never known before. Then he’d been called away to Uruguay and she’d seen it as a sign. When he didn’t reach out to her, she knew it was for the best. But the memory returned again and again, and the ache never left.

“Show me you want me,” Santiago said.

Her breathing became irregular, and the cool night air proved insufficient to heat her warm skin.

“Come here,” he commanded in a soft voice.

She slid her foot from his thigh and slowly stood. His eyes followed her rise.

“Sit.” He patted his thighs.

She straddled his lap, and Santiago leaned back in the chair, his lids lowering, and his big hands closing around her waist.

“What are you going to do next?” Santiago asked quietly.

Cupping his face, Abena leaned forward and kissed him. Her mouth against his sent a surge of excitement through her blood. He tasted sinfully good. His mouth soft. His lips moist and delicious with the blend of flavors from their meal and the sweetness of the Coke. Her fingers crept to the edge of his hairline and pushed through the soft strands—the way she’d relived over and over since the kiss on the rooftop of the hotel.

Santiago’s hands slid up under her shirt. “Are you sure?” he murmured, his eyes slits of gray accented with blue.

“You’re not?”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Oh, I’m sure, querida. I’ve imagined this night for years.”

He cradled her bottom in his hands. Possessive. As if he already owned every inch of her. He came to his feet with her in his arms.

Abena wrapped her limbs around him and held on tight as he walked back into the condo.