Norris Moore fell asleep.
When she awoke, it was already dark outside.
Opening her eyes, she saw Trenton Smith propped up on the sofa, dozing off.
The room was lit only by the moonlight, casting a delicate veil over his features—the lines of his nose and eyebrows were perfect, embodying the epitome of finesse. He had always been good-looking, even in Mexico—a place where the Latin people often epitomized tall and exquisitely featured beauties—his appearance and aura were exceptional.
She lay on the bed watching him for a while until she saw Treton slowly open his eyes and turn to look at her.
He rose from the sofa and approached her, asking, "Hungry?"
"A little. How did you know I was watching you?"
"Your fiery gaze could wake me up even if I were passed out," he teased her playfully, "What, after all these years, you still fancy my face that much?"
Norris Moore hugged her blanket, "Trenton, can't you be less narcissistic?"
