It was really him.

I snatched the glass from the bartender-Black Russian, dark as sin-and threw it back in one go.

Damn! That burn .

The burn hit my throat like a cut. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, eyes locked on Mateo. Tears kept coming, hot and stupid, sliding down my cheeks while I stood there swaying. My fingers curled into fists so tight my nails bit skin. Shame crawled up my spine-shame for crying in front of him, shame for wanting him, shame for every time I'd let Lukas hold me while I pictured this exact face.

I stepped closer. Close enough that I...