The Cartel Lawyer by Dave Daren (ebook reader below 3000 TXT) 📕

The crease of her butt was visible as she walked, and I was suddenly glad that my jeans weren’t too tight. She was absolutely gorgeous, and all I wanted to do was kiss her again, but I had business to conduct.

I distracted myself with a look around her apartment. It had the high arched windows, bare red brick, and the concrete floors that had been covered with fluffy gray area rugs. There was a bright red metal spiral staircase that led to a loft area where I could just make out a large bed. There was a door underneath the stairs that I assumed led to the bathroom, and she had a massive blue sectional that faced a large flat screen TV.

Her kitchen had tall cabinets that almost reached the high ceilings, and an island with a sink in the middle separated the kitchen from the dining area. All of her appliances were a shiny silver that had been polished so well they were almost reflective.

“I didn’t have time to shop,” Eloa said as she washed vegetables in the island’s sink. “But I had all of the ingredients for spaghetti and salad.”

“That sounds delicious,” I responded then gave the air a sniff. There was a faint smell of garlic, and my stomach growled again as my mouth started to water. “Is there garlic bread?”

“Of course,” the Brazilian bombshell said with a grin as she rolled her eyes playfully. “You can’t have Italian without garlic bread.”

“Naturally,” I said with a chuckle. “It smells amazing.”

“Thanks,” she said with a faint blush that made my stomach flip. “I put bell peppers, onions, and fresh garlic in the sauce.”

“So you like to cook?” I asked as I sat on one of the stools at the island.

“When I have the time to,” she gave a one shoulder shrug. “I have to be careful what I eat. The camera adds ten pounds you know.”

“You look beautiful to me,” I said as I lifted an eyebrow then leaned forward to look her over appreciatively.

“What did you… what did you want to talk about?” the gorgeous woman stuttered as I sat back on my stool with a smirk.

“Right,” I said as my good mood deflated a bit.

I shifted in my seat as I watched her peel and chop the cucumbers and carrots for the salad.

“Is it bad?” she asked with a glance up from her work.

“No,” I answered. “Well, I mean, it’s not terrible.”

“Okay,” she tilted her head to the side but kept her focus on the romaine lettuce she had begun to cut. “Are you going to make me wait until after dinner?”

“Well, I am very hungry,” I said after my stomach began to growl again.

The sound was loud in the relatively quiet apartment, and I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment at the aggressive noise.

“When’s the last time you ate?” she asked with a giggle while she threw all of the salad ingredients into a large bowl.

“I vaguely remember having an orange for breakfast,” I said as I tried to picture everything that I had eaten during the course of the day. “And lots of coffee.”

“Coffee is not a food group,” the beautiful woman said. “Though I can’t say I haven’t had those days. I’m glad you’ll be able to eat a full dinner.”

“I am, too,” I said. “I have some leftover arroz con pollo in the freezer that my mother made.”

“Your mother cooks you dinners?” the reporter teased.

“I am, and I quote, ‘a total disaster in the kitchen’,” I said with a shake of my head. “I do cook sometimes. But my mother likes to make extra meals for me, and I am not one to turn down free food.”

“What’s your mother like?” the gorgeous woman asked as she turned to check on the spaghetti.

“Beautiful, feisty, determined,” I said as I thought of my ama. “She worked two or three jobs at a time when I was growing up and even helped me to pay for law school. She’s also the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met, and she will not hesitate to scream at me in Spanish even if we’re in public.”

“Something tells me she’s done that before,” Eloa said with a smirk.

“Oh, she has,” I responded. “I had some wayward moments growing up, and she was quick to straighten me out.”

“Do you mind if I ask about your father?” the beautiful woman asked while she pulled the garlic bread out of the oven.

It was the perfect golden brown, and I could see the olive oil and garlic that covered its surface.

“He died when I was very young,” I said. “He was in a car crash. I don’t remember much about him, but he used to dance with my mother in the kitchen while she cooked. She’d complain the whole time, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy.”

“They sound wonderful,” she grinned up at me before she started to assemble the plates.

She swirled an almost unhealthy amount of spaghetti onto each plate, smothered it in sauce, and then put two pieces of the garlic bread on each plate.

“They were,” I told her as I stood and came around to grab the salad bowl. “Are we eating at the table?”

I looked toward the round, four person table a few feet of way. It had two open placemats and two that were covered in notebooks, loose papers, and her laptop.

“Yes,” she said with a nod while she put a fork on each plate.

We sat so close to each other that her knee brushed against mine, and for the second that she rested it against mine, I had to remember how to breathe properly. I wanted to reach over and kiss her, but instead I swirled pasta around my fork and