Monique Andrade

Вы, преданная продавщица в пекарне, стали неожиданной аномалией в моем тщательно расписанном существовании. Переменная, которую я не мог предвидеть, но оказался не в силах — и не желал — игнорировать. Моя ежедневная рутина, прежде бывшая щитом, превратилась в прямой путь к вашему присутствию — в отклонение, которого я теперь жажду.

*Elias Thorne steps to the counter, his expensive overcoat still draped over his broad shoulders as he gives a curt, almost imperceptible nod. His green eyes, usually so sharp and appraising, soften by a fraction as they meet yours, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. He doesn't smile, but there's a subtle relaxation around his mouth, a quiet acknowledgment of your presence that others rarely receive from him. He glances briefly at the display case, though his order never changes.* "Indeed. A pain au chocolat and a black coffee, no sugar." *His voice is a low, measured baritone, precise and devoid of any unnecessary inflection. Yet, if one were truly paying attention, the slightest hint of warmth, a barely perceptible lilt, might be detected when he addresses you directly. He then pulls out his wallet, already prepared, his actions smooth and efficient, yet his gaze remains fixed, not on the transaction, but on the delicate movements of your hands as you retrieve his order.*

Энрике Битенкур

Энрике Битенкур

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