“We haven’t met yet.” I can’t put my finger on it, but something in her tone makes me feel like I’m being tested—and quite possibly failing.
“Nope, we haven’t.” Yep, definitely failing. “I’m Seraphine.” I offer her my hand to shake.
“I’m Silvia, but you can call me Silvi,” she says, clasping my hand in hers.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” I blurt out, for lack of anything better to say.
She fluffs her ponytail. “And I you.”
The thought of Mateo—or even Desi—talking about me has me feeling like I’m about to take flight.
“Oh, uh, really?”
“Really. You seem to make them happy.”
I blink twice. “It’s not—we’re not—”
“Not yet.” She mutters something under her breath in Spanish. “You’re both too bone-headed to see what is right in front of you.”
The heat radiating in my cheeks threatens to burn me from the inside out. “Really, you have the wrong idea about us. Your brother… he’s… my friend?”
Silvi laughs. “You say that like it is a question.”
“It kind of is,” I whisper.
“You are his and he is yours. You’ll see.” She leans in closer. “But know this, if you hurt my brother or my niece, I won’t hesitate to crush your wings, little butterfly.”
I gulp and manage to stutter out some sort of reply. Judging from her pleased smile, it must have been what she wanted to hear.
“Great. Good talk.” She turns away from me, but pauses a few steps away and adds, “Maybe we can grab lunch one day?”
Stunned stupid, all I can manage is a nod.
Four hours later, it’s just Mateo, Desi, and me. His sister left two hours in to help their mother with something, and Arrón dipped out shortly after to head over to their other shop.
“It looks good, right?” Mateo says, his voice full of pride at our paint job. Every wall in the shop is painted a perfectly neutral gray, save for the back wall, which is a brilliant, bright white.
And while it does look good, I’m thankful he had the good sense to tarp the floor and cover the cabinets and equipment, because there may be more paint on us than the walls.
“It looks great, Dad,” Desi agrees, glancing up from her phone screen.
“What’s so interesting over there, pollito?”
“Meg and Renee want to go to Vinny’s for pizza.”
Mateo raises a brow.
“And I want to go, too?”
“Then ask me the way you should,” he tells his daughter.
“Such a stickler for manners.” Desi barely suppresses an eye roll. “Dad, may I please get pizza with my friends?”
“Much better. Keep your phone on and check in?”
“I will.” She taps around on her screen, most likely texting. “Oh, but I’ll need the truck to go home and shower.”
He cringes slightly but tosses her his keys all the same. “Be safe.”
She catches the keys and slides them in her front pocket. “I will. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” He wraps his daughter in a hug and sends her on her way.
“You do realize you just stranded yourself here, right?” I ask, rolling my lips inward to keep from grinning.
“I do now,” he sighs. “But you’ll help me out, won’t you, mariposita?”
I massage my ears a few times to clear them before asking him to repeat himself. Are auditory hallucinations a thing—because his voice sounds chock-full of innuendo.
He slowly runs his tongue over his lower lip. “I said, you’d help me out.”
The words themselves may be innocent, but the way he’s saying them is anything but. Which creates a real problem. Do I flirt back and run the risk that I’m imagining his toe-curling tone or do I brush it off?
But what if he is flirting and I ignore it and then he feels rejected and I miss any shot I might ever have with him?
Be bold, a small voice whispers from somewhere in the back of my mind. Be brave.
I decide to listen and take a step closer to him. He eyes me hungrily as I lay my hand on his very solid chest. “I’ll get you anywhere you want to go.” My voice has this breathlessness to it that’s wholly unfamiliar to me.
Then again—most anything to do with flirting with the opposite gender is foreign to me. But if his dilated pupils are anything to go by, maybe I’m not a complete failure.
Mateo wraps an arm around my middle and pulls me to him, skimming his nose from my temple down to my ear. He groans softly as he inhales. “You are a dangerous woman.”
“Are you scared of a little danger?” I whisper, wondering where the hell these words are even coming from as I rise up onto my tiptoes.
Wordlessly, he leans down and presses his lips to mine. Our mouths fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Warmth blossoms in my core as he moves his lips over mine, coaxing my mouth open for him to deepen the kiss.
His tongue meets mine ever so briefly before he jerks away from me as though I’ve burned him.
“We can’t,” is all he says before he turns and walks away.
Fury and humiliation flow together in my veins, giving way to burning resentment. Am I a game to him? Is that why he’s been so kind? Help the sad, broken girl only to break her a little more? Well, if that’s the case, I’ll show him.
With my shoulders rolled back and my head held high, I march past where he’s rolling up a section of tarp. He calls my name, but I ignore him. He can fuck right off.
Once I reach the paintbrushes, I bend at the waist, knowing full and well he’s being treated to a view. I give my hips a little wiggle as I collect all of the rollers and paintbrushes into a large bucket to my right.
Mateo groans, and I smile. He thought he could toy with me… lead me on. He’s about to learn—payback’s a bitch and I’m going to serve it up sexier than ever.
“Seraphine,” he says again, frustration coloring his words as I pass by him again.
I still remain silent. That jackass doesn’t deserve my words.
At the sink, I begin rinsing the paint from the brushes, humming softly to keep myself sufficiently distracted.
“Do not ignore me,” he says from behind me, close enough I can feel the heat of his body.
Naturally, I do the opposite of his command and pretend he’s nothing more than a warm, surly shadow.
“Seraphine,” he growls my name before softening his tone. “Please.”
“You wanna hit up a drive-thru once we finish cleaning up? I’m starving.”
“We need to talk about—”
“I’m thinking chicken tenders.” I nod to myself. “Yeah, definitely tenders.”
I hear him groan, but I keep my eyes on the task at hand.
“Eres desesperante.”
“What was that?” I ask, pretending I didn’t hear him versus not having a clue of what he said. From his tone, I think he’s annoyed. Serves him right.
“You are making me crazy!”
I throw the brush I’m washing down into the sink and whip around to face him. “Oh, I make you crazy? Pot meet kettle!”