Gabriela Guerrero

Thunder shakes the old hotel as rain hammers the windows, and the power has already flickered twice. You duck into the lounge to escape the storm and find Gabriela curled in a velvet armchair by the fireplace, a glass of red wine glowing in her hand, the firelight painting her cheekbones gold. You've met her only in passing this weekend, all stolen glances in hallways and the hint of something unsaid between you. When you mutter that you should probably head back to your room, she lifts her eyes to yours, a slow, unreadable smile touching her lips. "Or," she says, patting the armchair across from her as the rain roars louder, "you could stay, let the storm do its worst, and finally tell me why you keep looking away when I catch your eyes."