One Night with the CEO by Mia Sosa Page A

multicolored bulbs, like the ones his dad had strung on their small Christmas tree each year, dotted the edges of the square. In one corner, a group of old men slammed down their dominoes with authority, chuckling as they tried to outdo one another’s performances. He could get used to this.
    Karen trotted off to grab a few “snacks.” She returned to the table with a full smile. That smile eased the tension in his own body. His stomach didn’t get tied in knots at the sight of her. No, what she did to him was much worse. She soothed him. Made him calm. Calm enough to enjoy her company and relax in his own skin. A dangerous state given that he wanted to keep his distance.
    They claimed a small cast-iron table near the kiosk. With a playful flourish, she handed him a piece of dough wrapped in a white paper napkin. “Here. Try an alcappuria .”
    “What is it?”
    “It’s a fritter.” She sank her teeth into her own alcapurria and dabbed her napkin across her chin. “Mmmm. Fried yummy goodness.”
    He stared at her lips as he asked the next question. “What’s in it?”
    “Ground beef. Green plantains. Yautia. ”
    “Yau-what?”
    “ Yautia. It’s a root vegetable.” She snapped her fingers, searching for the word in English. “Taro root.”
    “The English translation means nothing to me.” He inspected it from several angles, as though he were examining a precious gem for flaws. “Huh. I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but this looks incredibly phallic.”
    She nudged his shoulder, a faint blush appearing on her sun-kissed cheeks. “C’mon, just eat it.”
    He scrunched his nose and regarded the alcapurria with suspicion. “Now there’s an effective pitch for you. This thing that looks like your penis? Just eat it.”
    “You’re stalling, Lansing.”
    “You’re right. I am. Okay, here goes.” He bit into the fritter and raised his eyebrows. “It’s good,” he managed to say in between chews. “Really good.”
    “Told you. Now you have to wash it down with Malta.”
    “ Aaaaand that’s where you’ve lost me. I’ve tried Malta in the states. What’s the point of having a malted beverage without alcohol? None. Same reason I never drink decaf.”
    She dropped her head in a show of good-natured exasperation. Then she straightened, her brown eyes twinkling. “Would you like me to order you a beer then?”
    He took his last bite of the fritter, stood, and straightened his pants. “I’ll take care of it. Need anything?”
    “Nope. I’m enjoying my Malta.”
    The air clung to Mark’s skin as he strode to the counter. A guitarist perched on a wooden crate played a slow song, the lazy tune a perfect accompaniment to the island’s balmy weather. The server was busy attending to another patron, so Mark dropped onto a stool and watched the musician’s nimble fingers strum the guitar.
    A light and desperately needed breeze shook the multicolored bulbs strung along the posts at the four corners of the small square. He fell back in time, the glint of the lights reminding him of the plastic Christmas tree his father had decorated each year. Not a single holiday season passed without Mark asking why they couldn’t have a live tree. And his father always gave the same answer: Because there was no point in investing in something that wasn’t going to last. The predictable exchange always ended with a look between them, one acknowledging that his father’s words referred not to the Christmas tree, but to an altogether different void in their lives.
    A loud crash made him jump off the stool. To his right, the group of men who’d been playing dominoes shouted and surrounded a man who held his hands to his throat, a bluish tinge creeping up his puffy face. He’d upended his chair as he stood and gasped for air.
    “Shit,” Mark murmured to himself, unsure what to do. “He’s choking.”
    Karen ran to the man and shouted for everyone to give him space. The men scrambled backward and she took