Bram and Sabrina

An excerpt from Fiorella's work-in-progress:     

    Bram nodded. “Diego had the portrait made for her Quinceanera, the coming-out party held for Hispanic girls when they turn fifteen.”  His throat tightened. “You’ve probably heard the story. Soleded and her father came down the escalator at DFW at the same time that a couple of terrorists started shooting at nothing in particular. Marco and I were waiting for them. They didn’t have a chance, and he saw it all.”

   “How old was he?”

   “Two. The pediatrician said he remembers what happened but doesn’t know he remembers it. The memory is supposed to dim as he gets older, but for right now, I have to make sure he has access to me at all times. He’s had a flip phone programmed with the land line and my office since he was five.”

   Sabrina looked into the melted-chocolate eyes of the pretty girl with the dark hair and shy smile.

   “I’m so sorry.” 

   It was all she could say. Soledad and her father didn’t deserve to die, Bram didn’t deserve to lose his wife, and Marco didn’t deserve to lose his mother.

   She laid her hand on Bram’s arm to give him comfort.

   Their eyes met, and she shimmered with awareness. What had started as a gesture of sympathy was rapidly becoming something more, but Bram had to make the next move.

   And he did.

   Gently cupping her face in his hands, he brushed her lips with a soft kiss, a sweet kiss, then a long, thorough kiss that made her head swim.

    A kiss that promised more to come.