by Aria Ford
A walking contradiction she was, curvy and with a partially athletic build. Many women would kill for that combo.
Atlas would know as he enjoyed biking to work, supplied his office with treadmill desks, and implemented as much exercise into his life.
A lot of San Diegan women took that as an opportunity to pair up with a complete stranger for a morning jog. They took their flirting as seriously as their figures.
Ofélia didn’t look the type to stand around and wait for anyone, let alone accost random males through such sly tactics. Aarón the Old Boyfriend was obviously someone from her past; a very serious someone by her shocked shyness at their encounter.
A very serious, very stupid someone who likely ended things first…
Is that it, Ofélia? Did that moron break your heart?
He stilled the hand smoothing the soft hair off her brow, giving it his all to pull back, both from the thought and his itching palm. “Not going there.” Atlas sucked in a long breath and watched Ofélia’s brow knit, head turning and mouth brushing his chest.
She was making this hard for him.
What had she exclaimed last night? Dios?
Well, Dios, didn’t that feel wonderful.
“Ofélia,” He groaned her name softly, earning more of that mouth and continuing her unconscious molestation of him. “Crap, Ofélia, stop. Wake up.”
She moaned, the sounds stirring the simmering heat low in his belly. When was the last time he held a woman like this, in bed, with borderline innocence? Atlas searched through his addled brain for a time, just one memory that could alleviate the growing pressure between his legs.
Try, never.
Never.
He might have bedded few women, dated even less, and only two called themselves his girlfriend for some time. Atlas Neville didn’t play the field. He approached all of those relationships weighing the pros and cons, hammering out an understanding before they passed his doorstep with their perfumed, primed bodies.
“Damn it.” His curse was low, but strong, smacking of his warring emotions. On the one side he wanted to wake her with a kiss, and plunder her sweet, soft body. The smaller, rational part clinging desperately snapped at how bad of an idea that was.
And then what? You’re really going to marry her? Did you even bring condoms?
He did not. This was strictly a business meeting, and he never mixed business with pleasure.
Until Ofélia, you mean, the perverted part of him teased. That part was seriously knocking out sanity, nice and good, and following the direction of his mind, his gaze drunk up her figure.
Definitely a rare treat, his Ofélia was.
Where her legs were thicker, she was toned around the middle, and as he suspected when they’d first met, her butt plump. She filled out her pants nicely, the material pulled tight over her rear and Atlas had an unfettered view of it.
“Stay,” Ofélia mumbled in her sleep, her hand breezing up his chest, palm rubbing circles over his pec. As much as he’d imagine it would be useful to be made of stone, Atlas, sadly, wasn’t.
“Ofélia,” he’s PJ bottoms felt tighter, his heart was hammering away, knocking a sensual spell. Short of shoving her off, which he couldn’t bring himself to do, Atlas moved his hands lower.
Closing his eyes he took some seconds to measure the weight of her cheeks and then he squeezed.
Ofélia jumped, the yelp cut off when her glassy gaze met his. She blinked, sitting up and rubbing a hand over her eyes. “A-Atlas?”
The unorthodox plan worked. It didn’t explain why his hands, still resting over her ass stiffly this time, weren’t lifting away.
He tried to move them, but she noticed.
“What are you doing?” she looked down and her eyes grew as big as eggs, before she pushed onto her side, scrambling out of his embrace. Lifting the sheet up, she looked from the pillows at the footboard to the ones that had fallen to the floor. “Oh, no. Did I do that?”
So much for her being a good sleeper, he unclenched his teeth.
“Atlas, I’m so sorry! I didn’t do anything to hurt you, did I? Oh, Dios, what did I do?”
“It’s fine.” Atlas cut off her second apology, a little irked that she would need to have to do that. To apologize like it was a bad thing, like they’d committed a grave sin.
He pushed the flop of hair tickling the side of his face, wondering why on Earth he’d let his hairstylist convince him into the edgier look a few weeks ago. The look was obviously not working; otherwise Ofélia wouldn’t have run from him like…like he contracted Bubonic.
And it finally dawned on him that the workers were up and speaking very loudly outside, their voices climbing up to their room.
How could they be so rude? Didn’t they know they had guests? So what if it was well past ten, they were on vacation and they shouldn’t be dealing with any noise.
It’s funny how the whole world could be annoying, and all colored from one bad experience. In this case, Ofélia was to blame. Or better yet, he was to blame for letting her and her unwanted apology under his skin.
He kicked out of his sheets on his side and stepped into a pillow from their failed barricade. Adjusting his foot he mumbled, “I’m taking a shower.”
Atlas didn’t stick around to hear what she had to say, but he figured it was another apology.
*
Ofélia messed up, grande, as her sister liked to say.
Grande this and grande that, but the slang was appropriate for this latest hitch in her plan to befriend Atlas for both their sakes.
“Gracias.” The smile she’d reserved for the workers helping her set breakfast in the balcony. Otherwise the warmest picture she’d seen to date until she stared across at the empty seat and untouched plates in front of her.
Atlas stepped out after his shower, citing an important phone call, something about checking his agency back home, and making a promise to return. He reported quite sullenly, exactly as he’d greeted her embarrassing morning display, with clipped tones and evasive eye contact.
Picking at her French toast, and playing with her scrambled eggs, Ofélia gazed blindly out into the fairy tale-like landscape. It really was a magical place. It also meant nothing to her right now.
“It’s my fault,” she sighed.
Ofélia trusted, after their argument, that they had come to a better understanding of each other to move forward as a team, at least where their plan was concerned.
She went to sleep imagining the next day’s activities. Atlas had informed her they were free to spend the morning and afternoon, and they’d be reconvening with señor Montero, Agata and Gustavo at the Montero residence for the second night’s dinner.
Two out of three days down.
Rather than the gut-fluttering warmth to being that much closer to seeing her family after the longest trip in her adult life, her insides squeezed almost painfully, and it had nothing to do with hunger.
Or the hunger of the breakfast sort…
She’d gotten up to check on him when Atlas nearly bumped into her on his way over. Ofélia stammered through an apology, and when she had control, she smiled tightly. “Buena dias.”
Atlas nodded silently, but as promised he met up with her for his, now cold, breakfast.
One of the workers, an older lady, knocked the bedroom door and entered on Ofélia’s call with a plate of hot pancakes and fresh toast. “As you requested, señorita,” she bowed, leaving with the empty tray.
As Ofélia saw her out, she returned to the balcony wringing her sweaty palms. She wished the old worker wouldn’t have said anything. Now Atlas knew Ofélia called in preparation for warmer breakfast to replace what had gone cold and stale.
But he barely blinked.
She dropped into her straw chair, the backs of her thighs protesting against the rough-hewn straw. Shorts and a tee shirt were the only way to combat the especially hot day.
Still she was feeling a little underdressed again in front of Atlas’ press
ed pants and colorful dress shirt. Last night had tipped the scales a little to even her self-confidence, but now, just like the thermometer of their relationship, everything had cooled off and was back to normal.
Like Cenicienta – Cinderella and her midnight-long spell, the stage coach is back to a pumpkin, and I have to wake up and remember who I am and my reason for being here.
Some conversation would be nice. She cut a piece of hot pancake lathered in syrup and shoved it into her mouth, chewing a little viciously, sneaking glances at Atlas until he broke their silence first.
“Agata called,” he opened the newspaper, rifling through the pages and regarding the articles inside. “She said she’d be by soon.”
“Soon?” Ofélia sat up, reaching for napkins and wiping her mouth, hoping syrup wasn’t smeared over her face. “Why?”
“She’s going to pick you up with her car.”
Wait, wait, wait. What was this about the car and Agata picking her up?
Atlas didn’t look up as he grabbed his orange juice and took a sip, speaking when he set the glass back down. “You made an appointment with her.”
“I did not,” she clenched her hands over the armrests, not caring for the hard, prickly straw hurting her palms. “What did she say I said?”
“Plans for a shopping trip in Ensenada? Are you sure you didn’t promise anything last night?”
Ofélia’s understanding dawned slowly.
Shy of slapping herself in the forehead in front of Atlas and making herself out to be a clown, she chewed her lower lip in thought.
Last night. It had to be last night that she’d agreed to this outing. Then again she’d been so stressed out, first that they’d be discovered as fakes and then when Aarón reappeared out of nowhere, she probably agreed to something else she’d forgotten now.
Speaking of Aarón…
Ofélia played it by the cards as she had over the five years, pushing his existence and their nearly three-year relationship out her head.
When Atlas questioned her about the timing and coincidence last night, she’d been insulted. One because she’d never do such a thing and two, even if she wanted to sabotage his plan – their plan, Ofélia would have used her common sense and chosen any other of her two old boyfriends over Aarón Flores.
He should have disappeared after shattering her heart all those years back.
She hadn’t been good enough for him then after her grandmother’s death, the difficulties of the Santeria business with her mom running it alone, and Ofélia having to drop out of school. And she couldn’t imagine how she would be any good for him now.
That hadn’t stopped Aarón from goading Atlas, pretending they had nothing but good times to look back on, cocky bastard he still was.
And thankfully Atlas had understood, without her going through the sordid details when she was nowhere near ready to share her humiliation. One day, Ofélia’s heart drummed a faster beat, maybe one day Atlas would get a chance to listen to her truth.
As all this went on in her head, Atlas, unaware of the entire picture, accepted her silence as answer when he said, “Enjoy your day then. Try not to spend too much.”
Ofélia opened her mouth and closed it.
I want to stay here with you, spend the day with you. I don’t want to go shopping, Atlas, believe me!
There was no point in pushing back though. He wasn’t interested in spending time with her. She knew rejection when she was facing it. Aarón and her other failed relationships had all taken a part in teaching her that.
But she must have really offended him this morning, if he refused to look at her or even try at morning civility. Poor guy.
Ofélia lifted her head higher.
She decided. She’d go with Agata.
This trip with the other woman might be a good thing. Atlas could take a break from her, and Ofélia could re-strategize an apology, tailor it to this fickle, handsome man’s taste.
Yet it didn’t excuse why she felt so sad to leave him and their promised day behind…
*
“He’s alive,” Tom had the nerve to say after he bombarded his phone with texts and calls all back-to-back. And he had the gall to smile, too.
Idiot.
Atlas suspected his dear, stupid brother had no clue or care for the problems he’d stirred up. That’s why he deserved no proper greeting, flesh and blood or otherwise. “What do you want?”
“Can’t I be worried about you – heard you busted into my apartment. May I ask why?”
“You could. I’m not going to tell you though.”
Tom laughed. “Fine, fine,” he threw up his hands, the image lagging a bit. Yet it was clear enough for Atlas to see his brother wasn’t lying in his own bed. Meaning he’d returned for a brief time and then disappeared again. Off to who-knew-where.
Stupid idiot.
It was like he was wanted to throw his life away. With the money his mother had siphoned away – Atlas’ stepmother, Tom should have been making use of it properly. Instead it was party, club and bed-hopping, and squandering of money whenever he could get the chance.
And somehow Atlas found himself always caught up in the drama.
“Come on. Are you going to make me beg?”
“Why do you care? It seems like you found a new home. You should let management know. They could lease out the apartment pretty quick. There’s a market for the place: Great amenities, fantastic location,” Atlas regarded the next sheet in his folder, the neat, cursive print of his parents’ marriage certificate.
Underneath the certificate was an old picture capturing his parents in their prime, his mother and father beamed into each other’s faces, unaware of the photographer sealing the moment in time, epitomizing their love forever.
Child memories toyed at the edge of his mind. Atlas eyed both certificate and photo greedily, his fingers running over the yellowed and crinkled documents with relish.
They were the things driving him to ease the Monteros of the resort in the picture behind his newlywed parents. The property in the more recent pictures and images sent over by Gustavo under Mr. Montero’s order was much different.
The building would need heavy repairs alone, notwithstanding the cost of the property. It would be a lot to take on, but Atlas was in it for the long run. Now he had to knock out the other competition, a hungering Mexican hotelier bigwig who wanted to expand and pitched an idea of a vineyard, valley theme park to Mr. Montero and the Oriols.
If they weren’t deadlocked, Atlas wouldn’t believe that his simple, but economically and environmentally smart proposal could lose.
“Hello? Did I lose you?”
Atlas cut a short sigh, facing the screen of his phone beside his laptop on the table. Bad enough he had to listen to Tom, but the video call put a face to the smarmy voice.
Breakfast had been cleared by the work staff and Ofélia departed for her day. Atlas didn’t want her to go, but a part of him was relieved he wouldn’t have to worry facing her after her rejection. A man had his pride…
“So? Are you going to tell me now?”
Atlas sucked in a breath, turning away to count to five and then lifting his phone to give Tom his hundred percent; he had long figured out the easiest way to shut his kid brother up was to give him an inch and then slam the door in his face.
“Five minutes, that’s all you get.”
Tom grinned. “Good. It’s all I need. Where are you?”
“Mexico.”
He whistled. “Arriba! What’s the occasion? You selling houses to the drug lords down there?”
“Ignorant of you, but no, and next question,” Atlas drummed his fingers on the glass table, a signal that he probably should have given Tom half the interrogation time to save them both from his quickly boiling temper.
“Who are you with?”
“Clients. Who else?” he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“That’s it?”
Something in Tom’s voice lifted Atlas’ gaze
. Tom levelled him with his own stare, his smirk growing wider by the second.
“You sure about that, bro?” Tom scratched his jaw, Cheshire smile in place. “I’ll give you another chance to answer, truthfully.”
Atlas tightened his mouth. There was no way his dimwitted brother knew; no way.
“No? That’s odd, because Sam said something about – ”
“Stop,” Atlas raised a hand, collecting himself for a response now that he knew Tom knew about Ofélia.
Of course! Sam.
He’d forgotten all about Sam.
“Hey, you should have just told me you took my girl with you.”
Atlas snorted. “Your girl?” That notion had him heating up with annoyed defiance. He had to cool it down. One thing Tom never responded to was anger. The brat took it as an opening to continue his stupid antics. “Sure, but do you know your girl’s name?”
“Yeah, yeah. Olivia-something, right?”
His lip curled at Tom’s response; his next laugh shorter, meaner-sounding, “Three minutes and counting.”
“So you took Olivia back home, and now you’re, what, meeting her family or something?”
Funny you mention that, little brother.
It really was too much though. Atlas shook his head, leaning back with the phone and running a finger along his upper lip.
“What’s with the look?”
“I was just thinking, and humor me here, but shouldn’t you be meeting Olivia’s family? After all, you’re the one who married her.”
“Whoa! Who married who now? Did she say that – because that never happened, bro.” Tom gave a grievous shake, muttering, “Woman,” and then clapping his hands together. “Let me make this clear, ‘kay? I never married no one. Single and ready to mingle always, bro.”
Atlas rolled his eyes. He was beginning to think Tom would be better off tied, saving San Diego’s heterosexual female population of one dog of a man.
“Another question – ”
“No, no more questions from you. This is my time you’re cutting into, bro.”
“Shut up, would you?” Atlas took a breath, reining in the display of anger before continuing, “What was your plan exactly when you used your money to fund some scam bridal agency?”
