I helplessly flick the page of my book, realising how I hate his particular character and the prose on the page don't please me anymore.

Pitching my glasses up to my nose and closing my book shut, I throw it on the coffee table and turn my attention to the television. An episode of friends was playing in the background. I had already seen it beforehand and merely used it as white noise in the background for my reading.

I wasn't in the mood to continue watching or reading. So I decide best and turn off the television watching a sharp black line consuming the screen. Stretching my arms over my head and yawning, I let my body click as the satisfying sound relaxes my tense muscles from lying on the sofa for three or so hours.

It was a good thing I spent my morning working, preparing my class slides, marking homework and essays and making a long to-do list of all the shit I needed to accomplish by the end of the week. I ate dinner around seven, a whole box of pizza and several glasses of wine.

Why not? I deserved it. I'm surprised and shocked at how I'm not an alcoholic by now.

It takes me several minutes to debate whether or not to get my lazy ass off the sofa or leave the dishes pending for tomorrow night after my work. I count backwards from five and land on one to which I force myself to stand.

On the days where the laziness got the best of me, my flat merged itself into a junkyard. Dishes undid, papers flustered about, clothes sitting in every corner and bed unmade. It was a walking nightmare and it made me feel disgusting about myself.

My Abuela always stated that the 'mess in your bedroom was a reflection of your mind.' Only in my early twenties did that advice seem to strike a lightbulb over my head. I let out a sigh remembering that I still needed to visit her and pick an appropriate day to do so – preferably this week, any later and she'll bring her tiny legs to London and pull my ears, yapping about how my love for her has decreased.

Grabbing the empty pizza box and wine glass from the coffee table, I thread my cross to the kitchen and begin discarding them into their proper places. The box was torn into halves and discarded into recycling whilst the glass found its home in the kitchen skin. Quickly, tying my hair into a ponytail, I begin soaking the dishes and start the task that should take me less than three minutes.

As I soap up the second plate, my mind begins to wander back to the car keys that have sat in the coat since yesterday morning. Then it drifts to the shiny car that sits on the curb of the road. It was completely unnecessary for Dimitri Asterio to cash his money on something I was in the process of planning for.

Also, I didn't need this money. I had my own.

The shrill of disgusts consumes me for a second as I think back to all the cheques that Abuela has hoarded in unopened letters, waiting for me to visit her so she can hand them over to my possession. She might have sent the recent one back but only because I pestered her to do so.

That was one part of the visit that made me unhappy about seeing her.

I place the last plate in the drying rack, turn the faucet off and wipe my hands dry on my shirt. Just then, the doorbell rings.

My eyes flick to the watch. 9:30 PM. My brows knit together and I frown. Who could it be at this time? It was nine-thirty in the night and there was no way the mail services were delivering at this time.

Quinn? Yes it had to be.

The only person who I knew would arrive at my flat at such a late time would be her. But she never mentioned she was stopping by or visiting.

I tediously made my way towards the door, wrapping my hands around the handle. It feels cold against my fingers before I press down with all my weight and it creaks open. I crane my head out the side, looking at the person ahead of me and that's when I stop breathing.

You got to be fucking kidding me. Dimitri Asterio stands with his hands in his dark grey trouser pockets, smiling down at me. He's wearing a white shirt that moulds into his body, three buttons undone and no tie. He looks ridiculously good for something so... casual?

"Isabella," he greets.

"Asterio?" I fully open the door, standing in the frame and the confusion is evident on my face. What part of deleting my address from his brain did he not understand?

He licks his lips before speaking, "I apologise for disturbing you at such a late hour but I was in the neighbourhood and hoping to catch you for a conversation."

I cross my arms over my chest, gazing sardonically at him. "Okay?" I muse out, sounding unsure of myself. "What is it?" What possibly more did this man have to say to me?

He gives me a small smile that makes my heart flip. "The matter is a little personal, Isabella. Could I come inside?" His eyes trail behind me, gesturing to the influx of my flat.

"Bella," I correct, giving a raised eyebrow at his calculated words. A personal matter? And he wanted to discuss it with me? What possible help could I provide him with? The man's pockets were hefty and he could merely solve anything with the snap of his fingers.

Still, he looks at me with lingering determination and the sickening illusion of hope.

Even before I can comprehend the words that fall from my mouth next, I'm giving him room to enter inside. "Come in,"

He mutters a polite thank you behind him as he walks his way over to the living room. He stands with his hands in his pocket, looking around – Asterio seems out of place, tall and unsuited in an environment that is over littered with comfort necessities and too many inspirational quotes hung in picture frames.

Could you blame me? They sparked happiness and I was on a sole mission to remove things that did not spark joy. Marie Kondo was to blame for that.

I take a deep breath to collect myself and slowly begin stalking over to the kitchen island. Now what? Asterio is in my flat and I simply let him walk in. "Would you like some tea?"

Yes, I should at least offer my guest something to eat or drink. Basic principles that have been rooted in me from birth. I examine him for a second as he takes in the surrounding, studying my place of habitat. It had a shabby chic finish, decked out with some vintage accessories and I was strict on investing in my sanctuary – it was important. It was a place to recharge.

His eyes flick over to me after reading my quote in the distance. Asterio gives me a blank blink before he registers the words I've asked.

He is surprised that I've even asked him. "Sure." he nods, "– but seriously, I'm not that fussed about it." His eyes trail down, reading something that lies on my small rectangular coffee table.

I ignore his last comment, already pressing the kettle on and reaching up over the cabinet and pulling out my fanciest china teacups. Only the best for the guest, right?

Besides, if Abuela found out that I had a guest over and didn't offer them anything to drink or eat, she'd painfully drag my ears and her lectures would be neverending telling me "I should know better'' and "She, Rosaline Quintero, raised me better than that."

Dimitri stifles a smirk to himself, a murmured laughter that resounds deep from his throat. "Interesting choice in literature, Miss Romero." I freeze, stopping everything I'm doing. Red engulfs my face, so much so, that I could put a tomato to shame.

I slowly look up at him and he has a smirk on his face but his eyes are now trained at the bookshelves that decorate the wall. He wasn't talking about the collection of books that sat on my shelf. He was talking about the erotica that I was reading earlier.

Shit, shit shit.

Abandoning everything, I gracefully walk over, my face flaming with each step with shame and snatch the book away from the coffee table. Asterio has moved back, his back turned and now examining my actual literature collection. It had everything from classics – to contemporary.

But I don't have to look at him to know he's shamelessly laughing to himself at catching me out. You know what? It doesn't matter, I repeat to myself as I slam the book into the kitchen ustensil's draw. Closing it shut, the silverware clinks inside similar to my simmering embarrassment mixed with aggregation.

I'm a bloody grown woman who can read whatever the hell she wants, even shitty love stories. Who the hell was he to judge how I spent my free time?

"You can tell you've studied literature," he remarks.

A book that's he's picked from the shelf, is slipped between his palms. Asterio is leaning against the white shelf as I placed the tray down that carried our tea cups. Hm, was it that obvious, I hold back an eye-roll.

"Please sit," he doesn't take another word from me, slotting the book back into place and helping himself comfortably from across to me.

I hand him over his tea cup, he gives me a small smile with a thank you and takes a sip as I prop myself down. I suddenly feel self-conscious sitting in his presence, considering my face isn't plastered in makeup or I'm not wearing my best outfit. But then again, he shouldn't have been expecting me too.

"Hm, is that cardamom and cinnamon I taste?" He inquires, taking another gulp of his tea. "It's wonderful," he comments, sending me feeling funny and lips splitting with a small smile. I couldn't have my tea without it, and I'm a bit glad he liked the taste of it.

Asterio sits with his right ankle propped over his left knee, right hand gently placed on his thigh and holding the small China teacup in his left.

The open collar of his shirt leaves exposed skin that trails no further than he's letting me see. It's dusky tan, has a sheen underneath my living room light and from what I see it's well crafted and defined. It makes me wonder what the rest of his body looked like – felt like.

And as my thoughts get the better of me, I bite my lip, scolding myself for ever looking in the first place.

"So, Mr Asterio, what brings you to my humble abode?" I cut straight to the point after a few minutes of silence that shroud over us. He lied to me when he said he was in the neighbourhood. I don't think or believe him in the slightest that Asterio lived around my area.

Yes, he might have had associates and several business partners but everything to him was a business deal and nothing more.

Asterio's form becomes rigid immediately, he drags his hands through his hair, displacing the neatness of it. His blue eyes trail into the distance as if he's pondering and searching for the correct words to find.

"I need a favour from you." He simply states, licking his lips.

"A favour?" I arch my eyebrow at him, unsure of what the hell he's talking about. And he drove from Mayfair to Peters for an hour to ask me for a favour?

"Yes. A favour. You're the perfect person for this and I couldn't quite think of anyone else." His voice is somewhat hoarse as he places the cup down, leaning over slightly. He's resumed the businessman position – talking to me as if he's making some sort of negotiation or deal.

Asterio continues, noticing confusion blasting vividly on my face. "Consider it... a favour for a friend."

"A friend?" I remark, chuckling amused to myself. Asterio as a friend?

Were we friends?

No, hell. We weren't even acquaintances.

But then again, this was Dimitri Asterio we were talking about. "What exactly is the favour?"

Asterio bites his lip, taking a painful glance at me. His jaw locks, the lines on his forehead are becoming prominent and his chest is rising in a potent rhythm. He's mentally preparing himself for something, I can sense it.

With a final rise of his chest and sharp breath, he blurts out, "I need you to marry me."

————