DELILAH (18+)

2

Alejandro Delgado.

It was almost criminal for one man to possess a name that seductive.

She rolled the name over in her mind, letting it settle there like a lingering melody. It felt like a slow burn, each syllable drawing out a sense of allure that made her mouth go dry. There was a heat to his name, a rich, rolling rhythm that matched his dark eyes, and the effortless charm that seemed to follow him like a shadow.

She stole another glance at the lit computer screen, and her eyes lazily perused the zoomed-in low-quality image she'd found on Google. 'It suits him,' she thought with a reluctant smile. The name had an undeniable air of mystery, just like the man who bore it. Alejandro himself was all confident lines and subtle smirks, but there was a depth to him that hinted at secrets, a depth she found herself strangely curious to explore. And Delgado—it was smooth yet sharp, much like the way he spoke, with that thick accent that spilled over his words like warm honey.

She realized with a start that his accent wasn’t just any accent; it was undeniably Spanish, full of rolling r's and the melodic cadence of his native tongue. It wrapped around his English like a whisper of home, a place she could only imagine. As she repeated his name in her thoughts, a question tugged at the back of her mind—' Where had she heard Delgado before?'

It was maddening, the way the familiarity of his surname lingered just out of reach. Her mind flipped through memories like pages in a book, trying to pinpoint where she might have encountered it. Was it a name she’d read somewhere, maybe in the news or on the cover of a book? Or had someone mentioned it in passing, long ago, and she’d just tucked it away, never expecting to encounter it in such a strikingly handsome package?

She stole another glance at him, hoping maybe his face would offer some clue, but all it did was distract her further. His cheekbones, the confident curve of his lips, the way he held himself—it all fit with the name so perfectly.

Fuck it!

With a low, disgruntled sigh, she rose from her chair and turned off her iPad. She could spend another hour obsessing over her new fixation—the Spaniard with the tantalizing name and equally intoxicating accent—but she had somewhere to be. Carlos was waiting, and if she kept lingering, she’d only end up late. She rummaged through the cluttered drawer beside her desk, fingers feeling their way around pens, paper clips, and spare change until they brushed against a sleek, small black phone—the sole source of communication she shared with Carlos.

She tapped out a quick message: "overcooked chicken @ Starbucks," a code they’d both agreed on and then slipped the phone into her pocket.

Grabbing her jacket, she made her way out, pulling it around her shoulders as she strode purposefully toward the subway station. The ride was short but felt longer as she tapped her foot, her mind wandering back to Alejandro despite her trying not to.

Finally, she reached her stop and climbed up to the street level. Ahead was the gym, an unassuming building tucked into the corner of a far street, almost invisible if you weren’t looking for it. She pushed through the doors and walked through the familiar space, her eyes scanning rows of machines before she headed to the stair master. She shrugged off her jacket, draping it over the handlebars as she stepped up and began her workout, moving in rhythm with the machine.

Not even twenty minutes had passed when she noticed a figure in her periphery, a man with dark curls and an easy, almost careless stride making his way to the machine beside her. Carlos glanced at her briefly as he adjusted his settings, and then they fell into a synchronized pace.

He leaned slightly toward her, voice low and casual. “So, I heard the oven got a bit too hot?”

She kept her gaze forward, her voice equally low, just two gym acquaintances having a quick chat. “Got stuck with the wrong recipe.” She shrugged, her tone giving nothing away. “Nearly got burned. Had to improvise.”