**

Julio and I have an engaging conversation during the drive to coffee with Alejandro.

It's just innocent conversation to calm my nerves—yes, I am nervous. Before at my office, I was completely in control of the situation with Sebastian. But now? I can't stop tapping my feet while staring anxiously out of the window. It seems like hours to get to this restaurant for coffee, but really, it's just my impatience.

When the car stops, we are parked in front of a structure that is heavily inspired by Spanish architecture. Briefly, I think of Sebastian's mansion and the similarities it shares to it, but I force myself to stop with the thoughts of him for once. Right now, I'm here for me. Alejandro offered me a lot of money to help promote this event him and his family want to host; this is for me.

Julio opens my door and helps me out of the car. I stare up at the building, then down at the beautiful water fountain in the lobby. A valet comes forward and parks the car while Julio walks me inside. This place is like a Latin Four Seasons; Barcelona or Cartagena without the turbulence.

"Don't tell Señor Quintanilla I said this," Julio starts. "But I think you look very pretty."

I laugh. "Thank you, Julio. Why don't you want me to tell him?"

We're finally inside a large restaurant, tables filled with the elite enjoying expensive meals and drinks. The ceiling is open, inviting an array of sunlight inside to illuminate the stucco walks and the silver chairs and tables. Whenever I had the privilege to go to restaurants like this, there was always jazz or piano playing. But here it's different—cumbia is playing from a live band. And it's amazing.

"He has been talking about you a lot, señorita."

I bite my lip as we walk through the restaurant, trying to hide my smile. "Really? What has he said?"

"Don't tell Señor Quintanilla I said this," Julio says again. "But, I overheard him saying that he wishes today to go well so he can spend more time with you. He also says he has never met a woman like you. But don't—"

"—tell Señor Quintanilla you said that?" I finish. Julio nods with a smile. Despite Alejandro's words, I have to remind myself why I'm here: business.

And Colombian coffee.

Julio guides me outside on the other end of the restaurant. The area outside is surrounded by palm trees and water fountains on either side, with a band playing softer music in the distance. There are only a few people outside enjoying themselves in deep conversation; this area must be "reserved" for those higher in social class than the ones inside.

Half way walking through is when I see him—leaning against a table with his hands deep in the pockets of his black slacks. The buttons of his white shirt are strained against his chest; I'm sure any moment they might pop off their sewn confinements. The thoughts make breathing a little more difficult for me.

"You came," Alejandro says to me. His eyes wander over me, but not in the lustful way he did at the club, but more as if he's taking me in and refusing to let me go. Julio is immediately gone from my side when Alejandro speaks. It's just us now, our table near one of the fountains with a waterfall attached; I feel as if we're about to convene deep in the rain forests.

"I'm a woman of my word," I reply. Alejandro smiles slightly; he's become known for only smiling fully when he's drunk. He pushes himself up from the table and slides out my chair. He's being a gentleman, and I make sure to take mental note of that.

I sit down. "Thank you." I say up to him.

He waits until I'm seated comfortably before taking a seat across from me. The only thing that separates us are wine glasses and utensils.

"You look amazing," he says. "Really. I'm not saying this as the drunk idiot you heard it from before."

"Thank you," I laugh. "And I'd hope so."

His eyes scan the restaurant. "It's much easier to hear your voice in a place like this, no?"

His accent is doing things to me, but I force myself to remain collected. "I agree. But I thought you said this place has good coffee?" I ask him coyly. "This seems like a full on 5-star."

Alejandro leans back slightly in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. "Oh, they do. They also have good Carajillo, Canelazo, Empanadas, Natillas, Sancocho, too."

I narrow my eyes at him, which is in vain from the smile that creeps up on my face. A waiter comes by and asks us what we'd like to drink. I haven't even looked at the menu yet; I know I want coffee, but how to order it is difficult since I'm assuming they have different brews.

Alejandro chuckles at my stammering at the menu. He then proceeds to speak to the waiter in Spanish—pointing to me, gesturing his hands different ways and such. The only part I got from his address was "pure" and "sugar on the side." And after the waiter wrote his request down, Alejandro said, in English, "I'll have the same thing."

When the waiter leaves, I ask Alejandro what he ordered.

"Dark roast with sugar and cream on the side," he answers. "You looked like you were struggling with the menu."

I roll my eyes; I'm surprised to hear him actually laughing. After a while of short chit-chat, I tell him that we should talk about the business we discussed days prior. Quickly, he pulls himself into business-mode.

"Alright. Let's talk business, then."

Alejandro begins to go into depth of what him and his family want for this event, how they want to make friendships with the right people. He explains that they have already established themselves in Colombia, but influence in the states would broaden their empire. By the time I agree with the points he makes, our coffee arrives, and I swear to you that it is the best coffee to ever dot my lips. And just like that, our conversation is steered into one about Colombian coffees, the correlation between Spanish and Italian, and eventually, my heritage.

"I've noticed how you say my name," he begins, bringing his cup to his lips. "You say it like...you're familiar with it, you know? Like you speak a Latin language."

"Well, I'm half Italian and I'm fluent in Italian. So, that must be it."

"Ah, that explains a lot."

I raise a brow at him. "A lot?"

"You stretch out the 'a' in my name. 'Alejaaaaandro."

I can't help but laugh. "Are you serious? I didn't know I did that. That's actually kind of embarrassing. Oh my God."

"No, don't be embarrassed. It's sexy."

I blush. Hard. Alejandro knows exactly what he's doing to me, and he's enjoying it; he doesn't regret saying that to me. Not one bit.

"I-I...wow," I stammer out embarrassingly. "I've never been told that."

"First for everything." His eyes level with mine over the rim of his coffee cup—those dark brown eyes that are more tantalizing than fair. His hand adds a pop of color against the plain white cup, and I can't help but ask him what the tattoo means.

"I got it when I was nineteen," he tells me, staring at the beast snarling back at him. "It doesn't mean anything. I just wanted something different."

"And your other hand? What's written on there?"

"It's a poem my mama wrote a long time ago. She was a writer; she loved writing poems. The one on my hand is one she wrote me when I was little. I decided to get it tattooed on my hand so I'd always be able to read it."

I wish I could read it, but I'd have to get close enough to be able to see the writing and translate the parts I don't know.

"That's beautiful."

All he does is smile weakly at me. He's smiling more around me, I notice.

"Do you have any other tattoos?" I ask him. I hate being invasive, but it's hard when you're seated across from a character such as Alejandro Quintanilla.

"Yes, I do. But I can't show them to you."

I frown, "Why?"

"I'd have to take my clothes off," he laughs.

I don't reply, because I know for a fact that I will say something completely humiliating if I open my mouth.

I steer the conversation about where he would prefer the venue for the event. He says that the decision would be up to his uncle.

"I'm better at working with people. You know, talking to them, persuading them. My uncle, he makes the decisions. They all work out in the end."

"You're quite persuasive," I add, taking a modest sip of my brew. "I wouldn't just go out to coffee with anyone."

"I'm not just anyone," he replies, the seductive look in his eyes making me tighten my grip around my glass. "I doubt you've worked with anyone like me before."

"I've worked with people who share the same traits as you—intimidating, mysterious, persistent."

We both know who I'm talking about. It was my way of saying, "I'm in no mood to work with someone who is going to be difficult." I expect Alejandro to become irritated with the sly mentioning of Sebastian into the conversation, but he follows my lead.

"I can assure you that those 'traits' won't be an issue," he answers. "But to be honest, I'm curious if this 'person' who shares my traits will get in the way of us working together."

"Believe me. They won't get in the way. As far as I'm concerned, this person and I no longer convene in that way."

Alejandro smirks, "Good. That's good to know."

The waiter returns and asks if we're ready to order.

"No, I think it will just be the coffee—"

"Actually, can I get the cajeta empanadas?"

Alejandro looks at me, surprised and amused considering before I made it clear that it would only be coffee between us. But dessert isn't too bad; might as well make use of our time together.

"I'll have what the lady is having," Alejandro says. I smirk at his reply; I haven't genuinely smiled this much in a while.

**
SEBASTIAN

"God, she's so...fuck!"

There aren't any words that can accurately describe how pissed I am. None. Absolutely none. Claude and Penny are waiting for me to stop ranting around in her office, as if ranting is going to make Leslie come back from going out with that asshole.

"This may be a horrible time to mention this, but I like her," Penny says. "A lot. She's got this spunk about her that's very—"

Claude and I's glares in her direction make her stop talking immediately.

"I don't know what she thinks she's doing but it's really just throwing everything off its axis!"

"She don't know about the axis; she doesn't know what she's doing," Claude says in her defense. I hate how right he his. I fucking hate it.

"The only reason that she's going out with him is to make me jealous. Did you see that little smirk she did when Juan or whoever that was came in to pick her up? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Sounds familiar," Claude mumbles.

"What?"

He sighs, sitting on the edge of Leslie's desk, "Why are you going out with Claire? Is it not for the same reason?"

It isn't for the same reason. It really isn't. It angers me that my intentions make me sound like the 'bitter ex.' But I just agree with Claude, even though he's wrong.

"Regardless, this Alejandro guy shouldn't be around her," Penny tells Claude. "Whatever reason she has for hanging around him, it's bad business."

"Thank you, Penny," I tell her. Claude rolls his eyes.

"So, what are you going to do about him?" he asks me. "You didn't want to take my idea."

"Your idea is going to make shit worse. We can't afford to get bloody when they haven't done anything to me or to Harrison Inc. yet. We just have to ride the currents, keep everything in line until the right time."

"What time is the right time, Seb? When they drag you deeper into their illegal bullshit, or when they come after those that aren't the three of us?"

"Not now, definitely!" I snap at him. "If we mess shit up with the Quintanilla's this early in the game, I'll have hell to pay from my dad, from Leslie's mom and especially the Quintanilla's themselves. If anything were to happen to Leslie because I decided to get too bold, I—"

"Leslie's mom?" Claude questions. Penny, though only having known her for a day, is as intrigued as Claude is. I sigh and sit down in one of the chairs.

"You know that shit going on with Axel?"

Claude nods. Penny is of course unaware, but listens intently. And it only takes Claude three seconds to put the pieces together himself.

"You're fucking kidding me." Claude gets up and paces the room, his hand running over his face stressfully.

"It's keeping Francesca quiet."

"For how long? Who knows if she'll rat tomorrow, or if Garrett will tag team? You would have put your name and her name in the press for no reason!"

"As long as I'm nowhere near Leslie, my father and I have no problem. He knows about what me and Francesca talked about."

"Does Claire know?"

I nod. "Of course. It was her and Felicity's idea. She's an airhead; all she cares about is the money and the fame. I give it to her, she'll be quiet."

"So, at the end of the day, everything ties back to you and Leslie?"

Simply put, that seems to be the answer. Every shitstorm ties back to my dad, and his motive ends up being Leslie and me. The Quintanilla's, however, is about the money, but he's scared that Leslie's voice in my head will risk the cash flow coming in; he's scared the 'right thing' will have the 'wrong impact' on the company.

"You do realize that you're compromising all of your happiness for her," Penny points out. "At least from what I'm hearing. From being with Claire, to staying in bed with the Quintanilla's, all the way to not telling her about Alejandro and who he is. I just...I don't get it. I really don't."

"Penny—"

"It's fine, Claude." She has a point. Actually, she has many valid ones. "I don't...I don't know why I just...I really don't know. I'm still angry at her but I'm angry at myself because with her it's...I'm doing all of this 'compromise' because I—"

"I'm sorry, everyone. Leslie doesn't like when people are in her office when she's not around."

Leslie's assistant, Darcy is in the doorway, waiting patiently for us to get the hell out. She looks nervous, like she's scared to tell us to leave.

"I dropped my phone between her desk," Penny explains to Darcy, distressed. "I'm sorry, I need a minute to find it—"

"Oh, no worries! Do you need help?"

"No, I think I'll be fine on my own."

"Okay." Darcy thinks of standing idly by, but decides against it and walks away. Penny stops pretending to look for her phone.

"If you want to do this, we need to do it now. Pixie-Fairy won't let me look for my phone for long."

"How long do you need?"

Penny walks over and grabs her bag. "Five, maybe ten minutes."

I don't know Darcy, so I have no idea how to distract her. She seems impressionable enough, right? Maybe I can work my fuckboy charm that works 99 percent of the time (the 1 percent being when Leslie didn't buy it). It worked before when I met her in Leslie's old office; I'm surprised I still remember that.

I get up and head for the door. "I'll distract her—"

"No," Claude says. "She'll grow suspicious if it's you. I'll do it."

"Alright. Make sure to buy us at least five minutes. And try not to sexually harass her with your words, please?"

"Aye, aye, captain."

Penny gets to work immediately when Claude leaves. She tells me that a camera in the clock on the wall and one inside the owl statuette on top of Leslie's shelf would be the best option for full coverage of the room.

"These will give you twenty-four-hour surveillance so you won't have to worry about—"

"Whoa, whoa. I don't want twenty-four-hour surveillance. Just when any of the Quintanilla's are here."

I know Penny doesn't believe me, but unlike Claude, she says nothing about it. She continues to install the cameras, testing them on her phone app, and finishing installation in eight minutes.

"How's Claude doing with Pixie-Fairy?"

Penny and I peek out into the hallway. He has little Darcy entranced completely; she can't stop smiling. It's like she has stars in her eyes every time he makes her laugh. It feels oddly familiar, that look she's giving him. But knowing his intentions, it makes me feel like shit at the same time.

"He's doing better than I thought," Penny whispers.

"One thing Claude doesn't acknowledge about himself is that he can charm your ass off."

Penny laughs. "He seems to be enjoying himself, though."

"Oh, please. That's how into character he is. He's a psychopath." I laugh to myself. "Guys like us are the best actors; we don't feel anything."

"You calling yourself a psychopath, too?"

I shake my head. "No; on the rare occasion when I care, I care way too fucking much."

**