Chapter 4 - Heather

Chapter 4

Heather

Barranco, Lima

The ceviche was good. That was Heather's first happy surprise. It was a cool, tangy, zesty, spicy plate of joy. The second happy surprise was that the beer was also good. Made in Barranco, it complemented the herby ceviche perfectly. The third and most surprising happy surprise was that she met someone.

Like, she met someone.

Like, actually walked up to a guy and introduced herself. Hit on him, to be precise; something she'd never done in her entire life, and never even imagined she'd be brave enough to do. She even used a terrible pickup line on him.

And it was all because of Shawn.

Well, Shawn-in-her-head. The annoyingly talkative residue of him. His invisible voice kept at her as she sat in the cute little restaurant eating her ceviche and drinking her beer, alone at a table.

You miss me, don't you?

She didn't. She was enjoying her night alone.

No, you're not. You're wishing you had someone to experience this with.

Fine. She was wishing—just a little bit—that she had someone to experience this with, as she watched the couples around her sharing food, gazing at each other over the candles, their feet tangling under the tiny tables. It looked nice.

Don't you wish I was there with you? We're meant to be, Heather, his stupid voice-in-her-head told her.

There's no such thing as meant to be, she argued with him.

She was driving herself crazy sitting alone, arguing with Shawn-in-her-head. Maybe she should have struck up a conversation with some of those tanned, pretty people back on the rooftop at Casa Suerte, and gone out to dinner with them? Because what kind of night was this, here all alone, arguing with her phantom boyfriend? Phantom ex-boyfriend, she corrected. Phantom permanently ex-boyfriend.

If I'm your ex, why do you carry me with you in your head? Doesn't that tell you everything you need to know? You can't forget me, because you need me.

I don't need you. I don't even like you.

The truth of it was shocking. Like a clean deep cut. For some reason (probably guilt) she hadn't been able to grasp it before. At least not with such clarity. She didn't like him. She didn'tlike the way he called her "babe" or, worse, "kiddo"; she didn't likethe way he rearranged things in her apartment; she didn't like theway he breathed on her neck when they slept; she hated the wayhe made constant judgmental observations about her behavior. Hell, she didn't even like the way he smelled. He wore a scent that reminded her of her mother's linen cupboard. She guessed it was supposed to be lemony fresh, but it just stank of towels.

And he wasn't even her type.

My type is something like that, she told Shawn-in-her-head, staring at the very beautiful man sitting alone at the bar. And it was true. He was her type. She hadn't been able to stop stealing glances at him since he walked in. He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders, and long legs with strong thighs. She had a thing for muscular thighs, especially when they were hugged by well-laundered denim, the way this guy's were. She liked his face too. He had a square jaw, high cheekbones, and a wild mop of dark curly hair. His mouth was full-lipped and sulky. He was seriously gorgeous. And all alone. Eating ceviche and drinking beer, just like she was. Alone.

Him?Shawn-in-her-head was laughing.

Yeah, him. She even liked the way he drank from his beer bottle. He sucked on his lower lip after each mouthful. It made her stomach do floaty, twisty things.

Shawn-in-her-head was lethally matter of fact in his dismissal. That guy is way out of your league.

Heather clenched her jaw to keep from grinding her teeth. Is that so? That was the thing about Shawn. He blended absolute adoration with brutal negging. He'd be lovely as hell and then say something so hurtful it made her lose her breath. It was crazy making.

You couldn't get a guy like that in a million years. That guy dates hot girls. Not girls like you.Shawn-in-her-head had that tone Shawn got when he was punishing her.

Thatwas what made her do it. That and the proper pisco sour she'd had when she sat down (actually drinkable, unlike the one at Casa Suerte), and the two beers she'd had with dinner. She felt reckless and rebellious, and she was sick of Shawn telling her that she wasn't good enough, and that she couldn't get anyone better than him. She was goddamn Barranco Heather tonight, and she could do anything and get anyone.

She made a beeline for the beautiful man at the bar. Her heart was raging in her ears, beating double time, but she refused to overthink this. She was riding a wave of anger and wildly unfounded confidence. As she reached the gorgeous man at the bar, she gathered scraps of her high school Spanish and managed to pull together a line as she leaned, maybe a little drunkenly, against the bar.

"?Oye hermoso, vienes aqui a menudo?" Heather tried for a mix of seductive and cheeky. Her accent was genuinely deplorable, and the gorgeous man at the bar looked at her as though she'd just sneezed in his face.

Heather held her nerve. He was a complete stranger, and she'd never see him again after tonight, so what did she have to lose? And maybe he'd find her cute. People did sometimes.

He swiveled on his stool and leaned on one elbow to look her up and down. Lord, she felt short standing here. She had to crick her neck to look him in the eye, even though he was seated. Not for the first time she wished for another few inches of height.

She felt the mad urge to run. What was she doing?

You're making a fool of yourself, that's what you're doing.

Oh, fuck off, Shawn.

The Peruvian dude wasn't running, so why should she?

He had the longest, curliest black eyelashes, Heather noticed, feeling a bit swoony as he examined her. He sure was taking his time looking her over. Her heart fluttered when his gaze lingered on her hips and chest. There were some benefits to being short and plump, she guessed. Curves. Men liked them, didn't they? When he lifted his gaze and met hers, Heather was stunned. Oh. Oh, wow. Look at those eyes. They were depthless, warm liquid darkness. Confused depthless, warm liquid darkness, to be sure, but they were admiring enough to make her run hot all over. One of his strong dark eyebrows rose in question.

Maybe it was her accent? Maybe he couldn't understand her.

Heather tried again, putting extra charm into it. But she was so disconcerted by his gaze that she'd slipped back into English without realizing it. "Hey, beautiful, do you come here often?"

His mouth twitched. "Yeah, I heard you the first time," he said in perfect English.

"Oh, you're American." Heather was disappointed.

"And beautiful, apparently." A trace of a smile curved that perfect mouth.

"Objectively so," Heather heard herself say. She flushed.

"Do you use that line often?" the gorgeous man at the bar asked. "And does it work?"

"It's the first time I've tried it," Heather admitted. She was painfully aware that she was still leaning against the bar like a sleazy pickup artist, but she didn't know how to get out of it. "I'll let you know how it goes. But to be honest, I thought you were Peruvian, in which case the language barrier would have worked in my favor. I think I'd benefit from the added mystery."

The trace of a smile became a proper one, revealing very nice white teeth. "Ah."

"I was just sitting over there—alone," she said, "and I saw you sitting here—alone—and I wondered if we could be less alone. Together." She couldn't do this lean against the bar anymore, especially since he was American. A sleazy lean had more charm if they were communicating across a linguistic and cultural divide. Clumsily Heather surrendered her pose and reached for an empty stool. "You mind if I sit here?" She climbed up. "And can I buy you a beer?"

He pressed his lips together and gave her an amused look. "Sure. It's not every day I get called beautiful in both bad Spanish and good English."

"Not to your face anyway." Heather wiped her sweating palms on her jeans and ordered them a couple more beers.

"What's your name?" he asked. He was polite, she had to give him that.

"Juliet." She wasn't about to give him her real name, not after behaving like a lunatic.

"Juliet . . . ?" He was dubious. Because she was obviously lying. She'd been trying for coy and flirty, but she suspected she sounded as sweaty and nervous as she felt.

"And you are?" She brazened her way through the nerves.

"Me? Romeo. Clearly." He gave her a sly grin that was sexy as hell.

"Clearly." Oh my God, the sexy man was flirting with her.

"Meeting must have been in our stars," he said as their beers were delivered. He lifted his bottle in a salute.

"I don't think Romeo and Juliet had the best stars," she reminded him as she clinked the neck of her beer bottle against the neck of his.

"As long as we don't tell our parents, I'll think we'll be fine," he said dryly.

"And no getting married, because that didn't work out well."

"Heaven forbid." But he leaned closer. He smelled spicy and salty and very, very nice.

Heather's insides were shivering. But she also felt powerful, because his dark eyes were appreciative. Of her.

Maybe he's drunk?Shawn-in-her-head said snidely.

Heather ignored him.

"Why are you alone here, Juliet?" Romeo took a sip of beer and did that mesmerizing lower lip suck again. With this guy Heather realized she didn't need to think about flags of any color. He was an adventure, not a life choice.

"I just got into town today."

"Traveling all by yourself?"

"Yeah."

"No boyfriend? Or husband?" His gaze flicked to her ring finger.

She helped him out by holding it up and wriggling it. "No husband. I broke up with a guy a couple of months ago, so no boyfriend either."

Took a break, not broke up.

Nope. Definitely broke up.

"What about you? No girlfriend? Or wife?"

He wriggled his finger back at her. "I also had a breakup a couple of months ago."

This was going too well. There must be a catch. "So, you're in Lima alone?"

"I am." He still had his stool swiveled, facing her. His soft flannel shirt stretched tight over his chest; the top few buttons were undone, revealing strong collarbones and a tantalizing curl of dark chest hair. She liked a bit of chest hair on a man. The thought of it made her buzzy. "But only for a few days," he said. "Then I'm off."

"What a coincidence. Me too." Heather tried to do her own lower lip suck and was rewarded by his gaze dropping to her mouth, where it lingered. "You have any recommendations for things I can do while I'm here?" Well, that came out more suggestive than she meant it to. Although she meant it too.

Those depthless inky dark eyes met hers again and her stomach just about dropped out of her. How could someone look so intense, and so amused, all at once?

"What are you doing now?" he asked.

"I don't know, Romeo, what am I doing now?"

Who the hell evenare you right now? I have never once seen you be this aggressive.

A better version of herself, that's who the hell she was, even if she did feel vaguely ridiculous. So, take that, Shawn.

"You like dancing?" Romeo asked.

You hate dancing.Shawn was scornful.

"Sure, who doesn't like dancing?" Heather's heart was jumping around as she watched Romeo slide off his stool. She was lying through her teeth, but, hell, he was worth it.

"I was going to head to this little place down by the beach, if you'd like to come."

Heather nodded, even though she hated clubs. But she reminded herself that she was brave and adventurous Barranco Heather tonight and jumped down off her stool. She noted his eyebrows lift as he registered their height difference. She topped out just under five feet three, while he was easily over six foot tall. "Is this going to be a problem for dancing?" she asked, waving at their different heights.

"I can always hold you up so you can see the dancers," he teased, as he gestured for the door.

"Wait, what? We're not dancing?"

He laughed. "If you want to, we can, but I thought we'd go watch one of the local shows. I was reading about this place where you can see performances of La Marinera, and the scissor dance, and other traditional things. There are clubs nearby if that's more your scene, but to be honest, it's not really mine."

"Oh, thank God, because I hate dancing." Heather was so relieved. "I was just saying yes because I was being brave."

He gave her a sideways look.

"I actually really hate clubs," she confessed as they paid their bills and left the restaurant. "They're so loud. You can't talk to anyone. And they never have good wine. Everyone just pounds shots and grinds up against each other in the dark. It makes zero sense to me." Her mouth was running away with her. She forced herself to stop the nervous chatter.

"Grinding doesn't make sense to you?" he drawled, as they left the restaurant. He put his hands in his pockets and slowed his stride so she could keep up.

"I'm all for it in the right context," she amended hastily. "With the right person."

He laughed. "Good to know."

"So, it's not your scene . . . ?" she prodded.

He shrugged. "You've seen one club, you've seen them all. And I don't really get heading for a dark room when there's all this to see out here." He nodded at the neighborhood around them. "I mean, why come to Lima if you're not going to experience Lima?" He grinned. "Come on, Juliet. Let's go down Bajada de los Ba?os." He held his hand out like a grand gentleman inviting her to waltz; Heather put her hand in his and felt his touch through every last inch of her.

The night had taken on a sparkly, impossibly magic quality. She couldn't quite believe her terrible pickup line had netted her this beautiful man for the night.

He could be a serial killer.Shawn-in-her-head was still hanging around being a killjoy. She wished she could silence him.

"You're not a serial killer, are you?" Heather asked abruptly as they descended the stone steps into the ravine under the Bridge of Sighs.

Romeo almost missed a step. "No." He gave a startled laugh. "But I probably wouldn't tell you if I was, would I?"

"Fair point."

"You picked me up," he reminded her, "and you're pretty weird. If anyone should be worried about serial killers, it should be me."

"Weird!" Heather stopped dead on the bottom step.

I told you. He's out of your league.

"You think I'm weird?"

"Unusual," Romeo amended. He was still holding her hand, even though he was a couple of steps down from her.

"Unusual!" Heather didn't like the sound of that. But she did like the way his thumb was stroking the back of her hand.

Romeo considered her carefully. "It's not an insult."

"It's not a compliment either. I mean, I called you beautiful, and you're saying I'm unusual?"

He took a step up toward her and she had to tilt her head again to look him in the eye. "You said I was objectively beautiful," he reminded her teasingly.

"So, am I objectively weird?"

"Unusual," he corrected, and that stroking thumb made it hard to think straight.

"Objectively unusual?"

"I would have said subjectively a minute ago, but as this conversation progresses, you're only cementing the opinion."

Out. Of. Your. League. This is a pity date.

Heather flushed. She didn't want to be pitied. "I don't want to be unusual," she told Romeo. "I thought you were into me because . . ." She trailed off. Because what? She couldn't think why he would be into her. Because she bought him a beer? Because she was an easy lay? God, men sucked.

"I am into you because," he said, leaning in closer, "you're unusual." She could feel his breath on her face. He smelled sweetly of beer. "And because I'm alone, and you're alone, and you suggested being alone together would be more fun than being alone, alone."

"Are you having fun?" she asked huskily.

"It hasn't been boring so far," he said with a smile. "Now, are we going to watch this dance or not?"

"I guess if you're assuring me that you're not a serial killer, we are."

"I'll need your assurance too, weirdo."

"I can't promise anything. Not if you keep calling me weird."

He laughed. "I think I must have jet lag, because this is the strangest night I've had in a long time." He tugged her hand and pulled her on.

"I'll try and be less weird."

"Don't. I like it."

"Really?" Heather trotted to keep up as they plunged into the river of people in the Bajada de los Ba?os.

"Objectively," he assured her.

* * *

Heather surrendered to the night. In Romeo's words, it was strange. Unusual. Weird. But wonderful. They went to a bar-cum-theater by the sea, where they managed to squeeze in to see a series of Peruvian dances.

"Most of these dances are Andean," Romeo told her, lowering his head to speak quietly in her ear. The swirl of his warm breath against her skin was intoxicating.

As the final dance closed, she looked up and found Romeo smiling down at her.

"Enjoy it?"

She nodded, not sure she could put the pleasure into words. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"My pleasure, weirdo."

"I liked it when you called me Juliet better."

"A weirdo by any other name."

He was seriously gorgeous. The corners of his lips were pointy, always looking like he might smile. It was a tease.

"Fancy a beach walk?" he asked.

Of course she did. She never wanted the night to end.

RB thumped from a beachside club as they ambled down to the shore. There was a line of people queuing to get into the club.

"So, what do you do for a living, Juliet?"

Oh no. No reality. She didn't want reality tonight. "My parents want me to marry this guy Tybalt, but I think he's a dick. I'm scheming to get out of it. That's basically how I occupy myself."

"Right. Noted."

"And how about you?"

"I guess I spend my days being all emo over some chick. I forget her name."

"Nice."

"It fills the time."

Bajada de los Ba?os led them across a garden strip planted with decorative flowers and stocked with statues, and down to a horseshoe beach with a pier. The cliffs towered over the ravine, sprinkled with city lights. The ocean was calm, swooshing against the sand like a series of sighs.

"You ever been to Lima before?" he asked, as they paused to pull their shoes off.

"First time," she confessed. "You?"

"Second. But last time I was working."

Heather was afraid that if they started talking about their real lives the magic would break. Software quality assurance wasn't particularly seductive. The sand was cool on her feet as she led the way down to the foamy frill of seawater. She rolled her jeans up and took a step into the water. They lapsed into quiet as they paddled along the beach. It was hard to talk when you didn't want to talk about work and real life, especially as work was her whole life.

Heather darted glances at him and shivered when she caught him darting glances back. Eventually she gave up stealing glances and just stared at him. Because she wouldn't be able to look at him after tonight and, God, he was fine.

"Are you spending your whole trip in Lima? Or are you seeing more of Peru?" he asked when he caught her staring. He didn't seem put off—he just stared back.

"More," she said. "But with family, not alone." She pulled a face.

"Looking forward to it, huh?"

"They're a lot," she admitted. "Like a lot."

"Aren't all families?"

Heather shrugged. "I don't know what yours is like."

"Messy," he told her. The breeze was playing with his curls; they brushed against his eyebrows. He pushed them away and shot her a smile. "Which is why I don't travel with them."

"There's no need to be smug." Heather couldn't resist his smile. "It wasn't my idea."

"But you said yes and came anyway."

Heather couldn't argue with that.

He laughed. "I'm sure you'll have a blast. Peru will work its magic."

"So, this breakup of yours," Romeo asked quietly after a moment. "Was it your choice, or his?"

Heather didn't want to talk about Shawn. She'd only just shut his voice up. "Mine," she said simply. Curiosity got the best of her, and she couldn't resist asking, "And did you do the dumping, or did she?"

"She did."

Right. Heather heard the flatness of his tone and saw the way his jaw clenched, and decided this conversation was only going to ruin the night. "Is it a red flag when a guy starts talking about exes?" she asked lightly.

He looked startled and returned his full attention to her. "Probably." But his gaze softened, and that warm, languid feeling settled in again.

"Hey," he said eventually, "do you want to go get a drink, or do you need to get back to Casa Capulet?"

"Will you be at this drink?" she joked, not quite able to believe this magical creature wanted to keep hanging out. "Like, is this a together-alone thing, or an alone-alone thing?"

"Let's start with together-alone and see how it goes."

"Like whether one of us serial kills the other or not?"

"Exactly. I know a good wine bar—are you a wine person? Don't be brave, be honest. I don't want this to be another dancing situation. I want you to actually enjoy yourself."

"Wine is definitely my scene," she said honestly.

"Because we can easily opt for cocktails or beer if you'd rather?"

"Wine," she insisted. "I'm a wine person."

"Except when you're drinking beer and pisco sours."

"You saw me drink that pisco sour? You were watching me?"

"There was a mirror over the bar—I was watching the whole room."

"But I was in the room, so you were definitely watching me."

"You were in the room and drinking a pisco sour."

"Pisco is a thing you do in Peru, right? I was being polite."

"And the beer?"

"I never said I didn't like beer. I just prefer wine. And that place had a terrible wine list."

"It really did," he agreed.

"So, this place you know is better?" she asked as they climbed the stairs from the beach. Heather should have been exhausted from her long day, but she felt wired. Zingy.

"Much better." He took the stairs easily as they climbed, but she was puffing to keep up.

"How do I know I can trust you?" she huffed.

"Be brave. Isn't that your thing?"

Yes. It was. At least for today.

Romeo led her to an intimate wine bar and to a cozy booth with slightly shabby dark wine velvet upholstery. Soft music played, guitars and plaintive voices. Romeo ordered them a bottle of Argentinian malbec and sat back to gaze at her.

"A whole bottle? That's a big commitment," she observed.

"I don't do things halfway." That ghost of a smile was back again.

After the waiter poured the slightly chilled wine, Romeo swirled the ruby liquid in the glass. "What do you think?" he asked.

Heather swirled and sniffed. "Smells good."

He laughed. He clearly didn't think she knew anything about wine. "And how does it taste?"

She took an experimental sip and held it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. "Oranges? Rind?"

The laughter faded. He took a sip too. "Definitely orange rind. And something woody. Sandalwood maybe?"

"Cherry and plum. And red tea tannins."

He reached for the bottle and read the tasting notes on the label.

"So you like wine," he said. He sounded pleased.

"A lot." That sounded bad. "But not in an alcoholic way. Just in an ‘I like wine' way." That didn't sound much better. "You?"

"I travel a lot for work. I've been lucky enough to learn a bit about wine while on the job."

Heather itched to know what he did—but if he shared, then she'd have to share, and she really didn't want to be her regular self tonight. "I go to wine tastings at a fancy chain store," she confessed. "They do a wine and cheese event where they talk you through tasting notes. It was a fun thing to do when I got to Chicago and I didn't know anyone."

She saw him register where she lived, and she took a swallow of wine. No more real life. Instead, she kept the conversation focused on wine, hyperaware of his knuckles brushing hers across the narrow table every time he lifted his glass. His eyes were so dark that there was barely any delineation between iris and pupil. She kept getting lost in them. Now and then she came to, only to realize they weren't even speaking. He seemed okay with it. The music was a low tide pulling the night into ebb. The lyrics played at the edge of Heather's mind, slipping in and out of focus, the same way the real world kept slipping in and out of focus as she stared into Romeo's inky eyes.

Somehow they were still sitting there, staring, having fragmented drifting conversations, when the music faded and the malbec ran out, and the staff were flicking the lights to kick them out into the street.

"Time to go, lovers," the bartender called in heavily accented English.

Heather flushed. Lovers. She met Romeo's eye. He didn't look away.

Unsteady from more than the wine, Heather slid from the booth and prepared to be brave. She'd need courage to make a move. She'd also need it to face her disappointment if he didn't accept her advances.

"Well, tonight was an unexpected pleasure," Romeo said softly as they stood in the street, staring at each other. The orange streetlight was a fallen veil around them.

"Unusually so," she agreed, trying to work up her courage.

"Beautifully so," he corrected. Then he reached out and brushed her hair away from her cheek. His fingertips lingered on the curve of her face, sending swirls of pleasure through her.

Oh, wow. Was he making a move? Maybe she didn't need courage at all. She'd stumbled into an evening that belonged to someone else, she thought dumbly. It was the kind of evening that happened to those long-legged boho girls at Casa Suerte, not to people like her. She wasn't even wearing a peasant skirt....

"I'd love to know what you're thinking," he said, his fingertips still resting on her cheek.

She was thinking that she wanted to kiss him, very badly. And because she was Barranco Heather today, and she wanted to enjoy it before the magic ran out, she did. Very badly. She lunged on tiptoe and managed to catch the side of his sulky-lipped mouth with her lips. At least what she lacked in finesse she made up for with enthusiasm, she thought optimistically, as she plastered herself against his beautiful body, her legs hard against his strong thighs. She felt him smile against her. Then he angled his head, so that their mouths met properly, and kissed her back. He tasted like malbec, and salt. His mouth was hot as it opened under hers, and his fingers were just as hot as they slid along her face and into her hair, sending shivers down her spine.

Kissing Romeo was a revelation. He kissed her so slowly and thoroughly that her knees almost buckled. It was like sinking into honey. His tongue was a caress, inviting her to deepen the kiss at will, and the languidness of it was lethal. Heather wrapped her arms around his neck, as his hands trailed down her back to her waist. She held on for dear life, not sure if she could keep her feet. Was this how it felt to swoon?

Kissing him was a powerful narcotic. When he pulled away, she struggled to remember how to breathe. She gazed up at him, utterly dazed. "So, the line worked, then?" she heard herself say.

"Seems to have." His voice was a husky rasp that made her shiver.

"Any tweaks you'd suggest for next time?" Why was she talking? Her mouth had a mind of its own—and it was focused on the wrong things. It should be kissing, not talking.

"Send me the feedback form and I'll let you know." His hands were still on her waist, and they gave her a slow and intimate squeeze.

"It's more of a multiple-choice quiz than a form, per se." She was still on tiptoe, her arms looped around his neck.

"Multiple choice, huh?"

"Yeah. And the right answer is C, just so you know."

"Is it?

"C: Unusual is better than beautiful."

"I think I'll be ticking D."

Heather frowned. "Seriously? You're going to insult me now?"

"Calling you unusual and beautiful is an insult?" He closed the thin gap between them, and his lips were feather-soft against hers. When he spoke, she felt their soft movement. "Can I walk you back to your hotel? Or your Airbnb?" he whispered.

"Yes," Heather whispered back, her heart exploding into a mad gallop. "It's back over the bridge."

He reached up and grasped her wrist, untangling her from his neck. He turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to her palm and, oh my, who knew there were nerve endings in her palm that ran to everywhere else. "Come on, Juliet, before the lark starts singing."

Heather felt the raw energy pulsing between them as they walked up the hill, away from the ocean and back toward the Bridge of Sighs. "Do you know about the wishing thing?" she asked thickly as they reached the narrow bridge.

"The one about holding your breath across the bridge?" He was still holding her hand. She'd never met a man who held hands so much. What was even odder was how much she likedit.

It was so odd to feel this connected to a complete stranger. She didn't even know his name. "Have you made a wish since you've been here?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Not yet. You?"

She nodded, still feeling breathless. "I did it on the way to dinner."

"And did your wish come true yet?"

She nodded again, slowly, feeling the shimmer of moonlight like an evanescent web around them. Oh yes, she'd definitely been wonderfully surprised.

"Want to do it again?" he invited, eyeing the bridge in front of them. Earlier tonight it had been bustling with people, but now it was late, and the bridge was deserted. "It doesn't look hard." He considered her. "What are you going to wish for this time, Juliet?"

More.More of this. But she wasn't telling him that. "I can't tell you or it won't come true."

"It's like birthday wishes, you think?"

"All wishes are the same," she said firmly. "You can't go airing them, or they evaporate."

He nodded, looking amused. "Good to know. Got your wish ready?"

"Yes. You got yours?"

He nodded and she found she was desperately curious to know what it was. But she didn't want to risk it not coming true by asking—just in case it had something to do with her and the hours ahead.

"Deep breath," he ordered. His thumb was doing that stroking thing again on the back of her hand. She never wanted him to stop.

She took a deep breath, and so did he. Then he winked at her, and they started the mad dash to the end of the bridge. The sound of their feet on the bridge echoed through the ravine below. Heather's head was pounding. This was harder after a bottle of wine than it had seemed earlier. But she made it, a couple of steps behind him, their arms stretched between them like a guide rope. Heather exhaled in a burst. And then he kissed her. There was nothing languid about him this time. His mouth was firm, his tongue sliding into her. Heather gave herself over, melting into him. Every inch of her was tingling and aching to be touched.

"Take me home," she whispered against his lips, suddenly aware that she'd wrapped her legs around him and he was holding her up.

"Show me the way," he managed between kisses, as he lowered her to the ground.

They quickened their pace on the way back up the hill, but she noticed him slow imperceptibly when they turned onto her street. She glanced over, worried the magic was waning.

"Which one is yours?" he asked, sounding oddly suspicious.

"The yellow," she said, gesturing at Casa Suerte, which was much quieter than when she left it. There was no music pulsing from the rooftop, and the carnival lights were dark, as were most of the windows in the bougainvillea-covered frontage. She pulled the keys from her bag, the fat pom-poms swinging exuberantly from the key ring. She saw his surprise.

"I know, they're ridiculous. It's so I won't lose them—it must happen a lot. This place seems to attract a party crowd."

"Right." He followed her slowly to the front door.

She fumbled with the keys. The room key had an orange dot of paint on it, and the key to the front door had a green dot. But the fatal flaw was that it was hard to tell the difference under the amber glass of the front door light. Especially when you were cloudy-headed from wine and lust. It took Heather quite a few tries to get the door unlocked.

The casa was quiet and dim as the door opened. Everyone was either out clubbing or asleep. Expecting late-night revelers, Cristina and her bartender had left a lamp burning on the first-floor landing; they were clearly used to people stumbling home late. Heather held her finger to her lips and beckoned Romeo to follow her. She made sure the front door latched and then led him upstairs, aware that he'd gone very still and watchful.

Serial killer.

Oh hell, why was Shawn back now?

"You're all the way at the top?" Romeo whispered as she rounded the second landing and kept going. And then he stopped dead when she led him into the corridor. "You can't be serious?"

Something in his voice gave her pause. Heather turned to find him staring at her, with the oddest look on his face. "What? I know it's not fancy . . ."

"Is that your room, by any chance?" With remarkable instincts, he pointed directly at her orange door.

Heather looked back and forth between him and the door. "How did you know that? Wait. Have you been following me? Are you a serial killer?"

He shook his head, then stepped past her. "This is so weird."

"You really like that word."

"You'll never believe this." He tugged something from his pocket. Keys. And swinging from the keys were three fat green and purple pom-poms. Heather watched, stunned, as he took the key and opened the green door next to her orange one.

Wait, what?

He disappeared inside. There was a click as the door closed behind him.

No. No way.

Heather opened her orange door and stepped into her own room. She headed straight for the bathroom. As she slid the door open, she saw the door on her neighbor's side sliding open too. And standing on the other side of that door was . . . Romeo.

Romeo was her neighbor?

"What is this?"

They were both more than a little spooked.

"This is either a quirk of fate . . . ," he said. "Or you're going to kill me and keep my head in a freezer."

Heather was startled into a laugh. "It couldn't be both? You don't think serial killers deserve a bit of fate?"

"I don't believe in fate," he told her, but she didn't think he sounded too certain.

"It's just a coincidence," she said. "An out-there one, sure. But they happen. And I'm definitely not after your head. Look, I don't even have a freezer in here." She swept an arm at the room behind her.

"There are more than eleven million people in Lima. What are the chances that we'd be in rooms next to each other?" He ran a hand through his already tousled dark hair.

"Well, given we're tourists staying in a tourist district, it's not that impossible a quirk of fate." Was he having second thoughts? Because that didn't seem fair. It wasn't her fault they both liked to holiday in romantic old casonas.

"But right next door to one another?" he said, frowning.

"With a shared bathroom," she agreed. "It's definitely on the weirder, more fated end of the spectrum."

"I don't believe in fate," he reminded her.

"Let's say fate-ish, then." She cleared her throat. "Look, does this actually change anything? We were headed to my room, and here's my room . . ."

"And my room, as it turns out."

"It does kind of complicate the whole one-night-stand thing, I admit." She chewed on her lip. "But not much. I mean, I'm only here for three more days. How complicated can things get in three days?"

"With a shared bathroom?"

Heather's gaze drifted to the shower. Her mind was immediately full of tantalizing images, involving Romeo and hot, steamy showers. She gave him a sideways glance. "Look, if it's no good, there doesn't have to be an encore. You lock your door, I lock mine."

His gaze snapped to hers. He still wanted her. She could see it in the dark currents of his eyes. "If it's no good? Is that a challenge?"

"?Oye hermoso, vienes aqui a menudo?" she drawled in her atrocious Spanish, adopting the same sleazy lean that had worked for her back at the bar.

"Does that line work?" he drawled back, copying her lean against the doorway.

"So far it's served me well."

"So far." His lips were twitching again. "But you might need to expand your repertoire."

"I'm more than happy to show you my repertoire, Romeo. Your room or mine? Or neutral ground." She was itching to put that shower to use.

"How about your room, then mine? Then neutral ground?"

Heather backed away from the bathroom, toward her bed. "How about yes."

"Who are you?" he whispered as he reached her. With both hands he smoothed her hair and cupped her face.

"Me? I'm just a weirdo," she whispered back, staring up at him. The moonlight fell through the arched window and silvered his beautiful face. "Please stop talking now and kiss me."

"A bossy weirdo."

Sure. Why not. Barranco Heather grabbed his shirt in her fist and yanked him to her. "Shut up and kiss me."

And in one last surprise, he did everything she told him to. And who even cared about flags at that point.