Intertwined
I mutter under my breath, slamming my palm against the steering wheel.
I steady my breathe, grab my purse and Stanley cup filled with homemade green juice (spinach, pineapple, and a dash of ginger, because I’m health-conscious now) from the passenger seat, lock my car and head toward the elevator.
Then it hits me—this exact parking lot.
Memory flickers: Renzo smoking in his car, looking unfairly good and that stupid lazy smirk playing on his lips I lectured him about the dangers of smoking. Who would have thought that, two weeks later, he had me pressed against him, his tongue down my throat in a hotel terrace in Milan, his hands—
Bab Populer