Free Leverage by Nancy S Thompson

soon.”
    It was my turn to shake my head. “No, I doubt it, but thank you for your kindness.”
    I turned to go back inside, but Roman tapped my elbow.
    “Hannah, would you like to come over for a cup of café? I just made a whole pot, and I’ll never drink it all, silly me. Who makes a whole pot for one lonely person? Aye yai yai! ”
    He tossed me a grin, generous and bright, with two large dimples pitting his tawny cheeks. His brown eyes twinkled with a genuine warmth I found hard to resist. I doubt any woman could. I nodded and returned the gesture, then followed Roman’s trim figure into his house. It was the same floor plan as mine, only in reverse, but his was decorated with an ethnic flair, in warm reds and oranges, browns and tans, with bright splashes of green and blue thrown in. And strikingly beautiful photographs lined every wall.
    “Where are you from, Roman?” I asked as I looked around.
    “Ah, Venezuela,” he answered as he led me into the kitchen. He motioned toward a worn chair. “Please, have a seat. An expectant mother needs her rest.” He pulled two large, black ceramic mugs from the cabinet and placed them in front of his coffee maker where a very full pot of steaming coffee sat waiting. He lifted it up. “See, too much café for one lonely man,” he said. Then he stopped mid-pour and looked at me, a question in his eyes. “I make mistake, no? Can you have café ?”
    I put my hands against my rounded belly. “Oh, no, one cup is fine.”
    He nodded and continued pouring then brought both cups to the table, going back to retrieve the cream and sugar. He lifted the tiny pitcher. “ Crema? ”
    I shook my head. “No, none for me. I prefer mine black.”
    “Ah, a true Seattleite, no? Not me. I could never drink mine black,” he said as he poured a good quarter cup of cream into his half full coffee. Then he sat forward with his arms against the kitchen table. “Now we have café, you tell Roman what you and that handsome husband of yours argue about, no?”
    I chuckled. “Handsome husband, huh?”
    He grinned ear to ear. “ Si, muy guapo! ”
    “Roman, is there something I should know?” I raised one brow, wondering why the best-looking men were almost always gay.
    He looked at me for a moment then seemed to understand what I was asking. He waved both hands at me and sat back in his chair, his eyes round.
    “Oh, no, no, not me, please. That is what all the neighbor ladies say. Me,” he said, his hand to his heart, “I was married once, not long ago, with two beautiful children.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, fearing I’d insulted him, but curious nonetheless. “Are you divorced then? I mean, I am. Ty is actually my second husband.”
    Though he smiled, his eyes looked sad. “I was just a photographer’s assistant when I met my wife, Marina. She was a model. Very beautiful,” he explained with surprising tenderness.
    I wasn’t surprised, though, to hear he had a beautiful wife. Roman was pretty darn striking himself, dark and angular like Benjamin Bratt, masculine, and very sexy in a soulful way. It felt like his dark eyes could see straight to the deepest part of me. He smiled again, more bittersweet than the last.
    “We had a grand affair, until Marina lost her visa. She was being sent back to Cuba, but before she left, she discovered she was pregnant, so I married her. Because I had already become a citizen, she was granted permanent residency. Five months later, she delivered a baby girl, Maya, and two years after that, a boy, Marco. But Marina missed her mother and wanted her to see our children, so they arranged to meet in Miami.”
    Roman’s broad shoulders sagged and his eyes turned misty. I put my hand over his with a reassuring squeeze. I feared I was about to hear a horrendous story of how they’d all died in a plane crash. He placed his other hand over mine and looked me in the eye.
    “Once Marina met her mother, she sailed for Cuba, and I did not hear from