Mr. Fiancé(182)

"Why didn't you?" I asked, curious. "You just . . . you still seem to not be fully committed . . ."

He shook his head. "I am. I was looking for something when I went down South, and to be honest, I'm still kind of looking. But I learned that I didn't have to leave Seattle to find it and that my family is an important part of my life. To not have my family . . . that would be nearly as hard as not finding what I'm looking for."

I tilted my head, curious. "And what are you looking for?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. “The same thing we're all looking for, I guess. Dozens of grandchildren, full control of any business I set my sights on, and for all my enemies to die in highly unlikely accidents that can’t be connected to me. What about you?"

"About the same," I said with a laugh. I stepped closer for some reason, and he turned to me. Reaching out, he took my hand.

"Come on. Let's check out the view." During the wait in line for the elevator, we kept our conversation going, like two new acquaintances learning about each other. There was a pleasant tension building between us, unlike the hostility that we started with. "So why did you go to Brown? I mean, I know your father wanted some of his family to be internationally educated, but Brown's Ivy League, and you don't strike me as too pleased with being up here."

"Actually, Brown is what caused a lot of it," I admitted. "Before that, I thought that I'd love it in America all the time. Instead, I found Rhode Island dreary and cold far too often, and the students were too whiny and spoiled for my liking. I'm sorry, but listening to trust fund girls complain about the unfairness of life when I came from a city that only has sewer systems in about eighty percent of the houses and air quality that is worse than everywhere in Brazil except Sao Paulo . . . they have nothing to complain about."

Tomasso smiled at my rant and reached over again to give my hand a squeeze. "I knew there was a reason I liked talking to you. Come on. We're getting in the next car."

The elevator was busy but not packed, and I could feel the strangely comfortable heat of Tomasso's presence close to me as we rode the elevator up. He let go of my hand to rest his fingers on my back—not too low, still above my waist—and I nudged in closer to him as a grandmother suddenly sneezed. "It's been years since I've been up this thing," Tomasso whispered. "I hope we've got a good view of Rainier."

Even I had to admire the rugged natural beauty of the Cascade mountains. "It's been a long time since I went to actual mountains," I said, taking his hand again. For some reason, the simple gesture was what both of us wanted, like we were quickly becoming something more than just acquaintances. "That would be fun to do some time."

"It would,” he said. "I'd just need someone to go with. Camping alone is boring and dangerous."

He let go of my hand and brought his hands to my waist again. Turning to him, I could see in his eyes what he wanted, and I felt myself being drawn closer, so close as I felt my desire build.

"No," I said softly, pushing away. "I'm sorry, but we can’t. That can never happen."

He stopped, then swallowed his words and looked out the window. "Apologies."

He stayed next to me while I looked out the window, trying to find words to say, to explain why, and failing. We took the elevator down in silence, and back on the ground, he kept a respectful but watchful distance from me.

"Tomasso," I said, stepping closer so that I didn't have to yell, “Say something.”

He blinked and shook his head. "Not much to say. I thought you were interested—you weren't. My mistake. I’ll stick to my job . . . what I should’ve been doing anyway.”

I shook my head, frustrated. "It's not that. Of course I’m flattered by your attention. But . . . can we just talk in private? I feel like I’m in a stupid movie, standing here talking with you about this while tourists walk by!"

He looked around and pointed. "The fountain. About as private as it’s going to get around here, and at least we can sit."

We walked the distance to the fountain, and I spent the entire time trying to put what I wanted to say into English. It was difficult—there’s a difference between talking business and talking emotion in a foreign language. We found a bench near the fountain, and I sat down, Tomasso next to me. "Tomasso, I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . you said it yourself—you need your family. And as crazy as mine is, as fucked up as Porto Alegre is, that's where my family is. You know that we can't—my father wants an alliance with your family, but you aren't Brazilian. He’s proud of the heritage we have, and, well . . .”