“White mocha, please, skim milk, but hit me with the whipped cream.”
“You got it, honey. I’ll charge your account.”
Pri heads down the counter to wait on her drink.
I lay cash on the table. “Same as her. It sounded good.”
“How cute,” she says, whatever the fuck that means. “But it’s a good choice. It’s the best drink we have.”
“Keep the change,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”
I step away from the register and find Pri staring at the television, watching a cooking show, of all things when she doesn’t strike me as the domestic type. I’m now at the pick-up counter when she speaks to the woman next to her, who is also watching the show. “These shows make me wish I could cook.”
The woman casts her a sideways look. “That bad, huh?”
“I’m horrible,” Pri says. “I gave up years ago.”
The male coffee barista calls out, “White mocha.”
Pri turns and reaches for the cup, I reach for it as well. I did, after all, order a white mocha.
Chapter Three
ADRIAN
My hand collides with Pri’s hand and a second later, I have my first close-up with the woman holding my future in her reach. And holy fuck, when her pretty blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes meet mine, I feel an unexpected, sharp pang of charge between us that has no place in this encounter.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, jerking her hand back and giving a nervous laugh. “I ordered a white mocha, I thought that was mine.”
She’s beautiful, polite even, and everything male in me roars to life. “Per the barista we very adorably ordered the same drink, but you were in front of me. I didn’t realize you didn’t have your drink yet.” I offer her the drink. “What kind of a gentleman would I be if I didn’t wait my turn?”
“White mocha!” the barista calls out.
She smiles, and it’s charming as hell. “Now we both have our drinks.”
My lips curve. “I guess we do.”
I offer her my hand and my brother’s name. “Rafael Ramos,” I say, using my brother’s stage name, the lie told by necessity, not choice. I’m trying to stay alive, and I may be the person who keeps her alive. Or not. That’s still to be determined.
She accepts my hand and the charge between us is back and instant. She feels it too, her lashes lowering, as if she’s trying to hide her response, her gaze slowly lifting. “Priscilla Miller,” she says, and when I reluctantly, and I do mean reluctantly, release her hand, she adds, “but call me Pri. It’s not much better than Priscilla, but then everything is better than Priscilla.”
“Nice to meet you, Pri. You hate the name that much, huh?”
“Oh yes,” she confirms. “My mother had a thing for Priscilla Presley, as in Elvis’s ex.” She holds up a hand. “Don’t ask. I don’t understand either.”
“What do you do, Pri?”
“I’m an attorney. What about you?”
“Private security,” I say because the truth is, I’m going to face her as the real me, sooner than later. I’d prefer to do so with as few lies between us as possible. “What kind of law do you practice?”
“Criminal. I’m an Assistant DA.” Her brows dip with an obvious thought. “Rafael. There’s a singer named Rafael. You look like him. You’re not—”
“No,” I say, cursing my brother, who makes me proud as hell, but his newly escalated popularity in the states is not in my favor right about now. “But,” I add, “I get that a lot.”
“Priscilla!”
At the shout of her name, Pri turns away and then rotates right back to me, literally grabbing my arm, which is a surprisingly intimate gesture, not that I’m complaining. In fact, color me intrigued. “My God,” she whispers urgently, “it’s my mother. I can’t be alone with her. Please help. Pretend to be my date?”
I arch a brow. “Pretend to be your date?”
“Please?”
Oh, how I’d like her to say please again, and for many other reasons. “What do I get in return?”
“Priscilla, honey.”
Pri’s eyes plead with me and she says, “Name your price—later.”
She turns and her mother wraps her in a hug. “God, I’m so worried about you.” She pulls back to study Pri. “You look horrible.”
“Thanks for pointing that out, Mom.” She grimaces and she even does that pretty. “I just went running,” she adds. “I have on no make-up.”
Her mother’s eyes find mine and there is no question Pri is her mother’s daughter, her eyes just as blue, her skin just as porcelain. Mother Pri gives me