The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,94
feel like every time I see you, whatever progress we’ve made has been erased?” he asks.
“Progress?” I echo.
I haven’t seen him since Evangelina Cisneros’s reception at Madison Square.
He smiles. “Our friendship, Grace.”
“I didn’t realize we were making progress,” I lie.
“You wound me.”
I barely stifle a snort. “I find that very unlikely.”
“And yet, true.”
I can’t quite formulate a proper retort to that one.
“Would you like to walk together?” he asks. “Moving is probably our best ward against the cold.”
I nod, surprising myself.
As we walk, the weather hardly registers, the atmosphere far too magical for such sensibilities. Even though I was privy to much of the planning for tonight’s event, I still can’t help but be a little dazzled by it as everyone else is.
City Hall Plaza is lit up with magnesium lights.
A firework fills the night sky. You can barely hear the choral singers over the sound of the other entertainments.
“What if I told you I wished to be something other than your friend?” Rafael asks unexpectedly, stopping me in my tracks.
I gaze up at him, waiting for the witty rejoinder, or a teasing note to fill the air, but his expression is hooded, and I can’t decipher if it’s amusement or something else in his eyes.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking.”
It takes far longer than it should for me to formulate a response.
“I’m flattered,” I say carefully. “I am sure you are quite the catch.”
His lips curve, amusement filling his gaze.
“But I doubt we would suit,” I add.
He shifts, and I can no longer see his face. “You don’t think so?”
“I like you, as a friend, of course. But the other—No.”
“Why not?”
“I—I don’t have time for such things. Or the patience for them.”
A man would no doubt object to my choice of career, would rather me see to his needs instead of fulfilling my own. What’s romance if not a precursor to marriage, and I’ve yet to see the marriage that didn’t require a woman to sacrifice far more than she should.
I sneak a peek at him, trying to read his expression, a pang in my chest at the idea that I might have hurt his feelings.
“You’ve thought about this a great deal, I see,” he replies.
“I’ve always known I didn’t wish to marry.”
“Always?”
“Well, I suppose since I was old enough to start thinking of such things. I saw the marriage my mother and stepfather have, and I couldn’t imagine myself in such a situation.”
“You like your independence.”
“Of course.”
“And you think that if you love someone else, you won’t be able to maintain it?”
The word “love” enters the conversation with as much subtlety as one of the fireworks exploding overhead.
Rafael lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “You should see your face. I said ‘love.’ I didn’t utter profanity.” He shakes his head. “It would figure, wouldn’t it? And I thought I was the most marriage-averse person in the city.”
I wrap my arms around me, wishing I’d worn a slightly thicker coat.
Wordlessly, Rafael reaches into the pocket of his coat and hands me a flask, his initials engraved on the exterior.
“What’s in it?”
“Whiskey. It’ll warm you up.”
I hesitate.
“Otherwise, I’ll have to do the gentlemanly thing and offer you my coat, and if I stand out here in this damn weather in my jacket and shirtsleeves, I’ve no doubt I’ll catch the death of a cold.”
His lips twitch as though he injected the “damn” just to prove his point about the word “love” evoking a strong reaction from me.
I take the flask from him, lifting the cold metal to my lips. Belatedly, it occurs to me how intimate such an act is, that his mouth once grazed the same place, but I take a swig, the liquid sending a heat of fire down my belly.
“My grandfather was a cigar maker in Cuba. Did I ever tell you that?”
I shake my head.
“My mother worked as a seamstress.”
His gaze slides to my outfit; even though it isn’t flashy, my coat is finely made, though hardly on the same level as his.
“And now you’re one of the kings of New York,” I reply.
He smiles just a touch ironically. “The American Dream.”
“It’s not your—your background,” I say, lest he think I care which ship from Europe his family hailed from over a century ago or whether they’re descended from Dutch settlers like mine.
I wait for a quip or one of his usual dry remarks, but he’s strangely silent, inviting me to fill the space with an explanation I’m not sure I know how to give.