By dinner, I was in my kitchen with garlic on my hands and denial in my bloodstream, cooking Colombian food like I hadn’t just spent the afternoon beside my beautiful client and his fiance, a man who kept brushing up against every locked thing inside me.No one needed to know.Not Elma, who was now sitting in a patio chair with a thin cardigan and the face of a woman who had promised not to eat too much, then lost to the smell of hogao.Not Saba, who had arrived from Stanford two hours ago with her hair thrown into a careless ponytail, an oversized gray hoodie, cargo pants, sneakers that looked like they had once kicked down the door of an energy lab, and a laptop bag stuffed with thick books on oil futures, renewable transition, and possibly one expensive lip gloss she had bought while pretending not to care about beauty.Not Aiden, who was sitting in his chair with the iPad propped up in front of his plate, his fringe falling over his forehead, his cheeks puffed out because he was c
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