“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“Iheardyou,” I say, sneering at him, “on the phone.”
“What are you—?”
“With yourquerida. Youramor,” I say, hating how my heart has started racing. He smells showered and warm, and I wish I could melt into him.
The nearness of you, I think,is bad for me.
“Whatquerida?” he asks, his face genuinely confused.
“Whew! You’re a great actor,” I say, poking my finger in his chest.
“I’m not acting!” he insists, his voice raised. “I don’t understand what the hell you’re talking about!”
“I found your wallet on the floor!” I bellow. “I went to the hallway to give it back to you! I heard you on the phone.Meu querida! Meu amor!Fuck you, Rio! My sheets were still warm!”
He stares at me, his eyes boring into mine like he can’t believe I’m for real, and I decide I’ve had enough. I turn to leave, stepping away from him, but he grabs my arm again and pulls me back, hauling me against his chest and locking his arms around me. It occurs to me to struggle, but he’s about ten times bigger and stronger than me. If I want to get away from him, I’m going to have to scream for help.
“You’re wrong, Yara.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my ears!”
“You’re wrong,” he says again, his voice soft and furious.
“I’ll give you exactly ten seconds to tell me why I’m wrong,” I tell him, “and then I’m screaming for help.”
“Screaming? Wow,” he whispers, his voice shocked and deflated. His hands instantly drop to his sides. “You think I would hurt you?”
A flicker of doubt passes through me. His tone is so genuinely hurt.You’re wrong.I wonder—for the first time—what he thinks I’m wrong about. I know what I heard. What could I have misunderstood about his words?
“Iheardyou on the phone.”
“I don’t deny that I was on the phone and yes, I called someonequeridaandamor, but—”
“See!” I triumph. “I was right! I knew it—”
“My daughter.”
“—that you’re cheating on...”My daughter.The words finally connect to my brain, reverberating unpleasantly. “Wait. What?”
“I was talking to mydaughter,” he says, leaning against the wall behind him and crossing his arms over his chest. If his face was stormy before, it’s reaching tornado-status now. “Jacinda. My fourteen-year-old daughter. She lives in Sao Paulo with her mother.”
“With your wife?” I ask, my pride hoping I’m right and my heart hoping I’m wrong.
“Myex,” he growls. “We got divorced when Jacinda was three. I haven’t been married since.”
I’m glad the light is dim in this hallway, and he can’t see the intense heat making my cheeks crimson.
“You’re single,” I murmur.
“Of course,” he says, his eyes dark and cool. “I wouldn’t sleep with you if I wasn’t.”
I can’t look at him anymore. I know he’s telling the truth. I know it, and I’m a ginormous asshole for treating him like a cheater. He was speaking to his daughter, for God’s sake. His child.
I stare down at my shoes, wishing I could disappear. After what feels like a decade of silence, I realize he’s waiting for an apology.