“You’re covered in blood, so I say that’s far from fucking fine.” I push onto my toes, trying to get closer.
CK sighs, refusing to meet my eye. “It’s not mine.”
“Pinche mierda.” I tuck my thumbs beneath his chin, pushing so he can see the glare I level him with. “You think that makes it any better?”
Still…
This frustrating-as-fuck man stays resolute in his silence. If I weren’t so damn worried about him being injured, I’d throttle him myself.
He reaches up to fix his glasses, his arm brushing along mine as he does. Those butterflies, both his touch and that adjustment usually set free, remain dormant as he slides his gaze to the glass wall leading to the balcony.
His cheeks fill with color, and I do my best to finish my inspection of his person as quickly as possible, my concern for him palpable. Curling my fingers around his nape, I use my thumbs under his jaw as a pivot point and angle his head this way and that.
Satisfied that he was, in fact, telling the truth and there are no visible injuries, I lower to my heels. Casting my own glance toward the balcony, I’m grateful that the lighting allows me to see outside without them being able to see in.
Not wanting to be stumbled upon should they come looking to see what’s taking me so long to come back, I link my hand with CK’s and drag him in the direction of the laundry room. We have things to discuss, and we certainly do not need an audience.
I even go as far as shutting the pocket doors that close off the room behind us.
“Take off your shirt,” I instruct, opening the cabinet housing the stain remover.
Spray bottle in hand, I turn, only to see a still-shirted CK looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Why are you still wearing your shirt?” I make a Come on, off with it motion with my hands.
CK’s eyebrows fly up his forehead, and still…his shirt stays on.
“Ay dios mío, Christopher.” I slam the plastic bottle on the countertop above the two sets of washers and dryers and stalk toward the stubborn man, yanking on the end of his shirt.
“Why are you trying to get me naked?” There’s a tiny hitch to CK’s lips when he stares at my strangling hold.
Listen, it was either wring the cotton or his neck. I went with the option least likely to end up with me in the big house.
I scoff. “I didn’t ask you to drop trou.” I roll my eyes. “I asked you to take off your shirt, so it doesn’t stain beyond repair.”
“Don’t worry about it, Q.” CK wraps his hands around my wrists. “I’ll just throw it out.”
“Don’t do that.” I pout. I love this shirt on him. “It really makes your eyes pop.” And it does. The greenish undertones in the turquoise pick up the darker navy that rims the outer edges of his irises, making the inner circles almost look like they’re glowing.
“Maybe if I used lines like that, my date tonight would have gone better than it did.”
A part of me is sad his date wasn’t great, but another part—a piece slightly larger and one that wholly makes me an asshole—is happy.
What the hell am I doing to myself? I’ve never thought of myself as a masochist, but what else is there to explain my behavior?
If these past nine months have taught me anything, it’s that getting CK to realize my feelings toward him are genuine is an uphill battle. Watching him go on dates, helping him go on those dates, is an exercise in insanity.
“Want to tell me about it?” I ask, purposely keeping my voice soft.
His mouth presses into a flat line and his nostrils flare.
I wait him out, wait for him to say something…anything. Hell, I’d play a round of Blue’s Clues at this point if it’d give me any insight into what happened with…Julia? That was her name, right?
Oh, please. Don’t try to pretend you didn’t memorize every factoid on that chick’s profile.
Shit!
I did. I totally did.
Julia Simon. Twenty-one years old. Member of her high school’s national-winning debate team and valedictorian of her graduating class just like CK. Graphic design major about to start her senior year at the U of J.
Not only is she better suited for someone like CK on paper, she’s also freaking gorgeous to boot.
Mamá constantly harps on about the importance of always looking one’s best, insisting I should never leave the house without “putting my face on,” but what’s the use of being pretty if that’s the only thing people see when they look at you?
I’m tired of the superficial, surface-level relationships I had before Emma brought me into her inner circle. These friendships I’ve formed over this last year are more meaningful than almost any others I’ve had before—at least outside of Abuelita.
Is it so wrong to want a similar connection with the person I share my heart with?
I worry the cotton of CK’s shirt, twisting and bunching it in my fingers until I’m unable to handle the uncertainty of not knowing any longer. “Was she a sore loser or something?” I bite my lip, second-guessing the decision to suggest bowling for their date.
After learning CK used to play in a league with his gramps, I honestly thought it was a great suggestion. Bowling is one of those tried-and-true first date activities because it offers built-in conversation starters. It also happens to be an activity CK is already confident in, so it should have been a win-win.
“Or did you play the gentleman tonight and let her win?” I tease to disguise any of my own feelings.
“You mean like I did with you and Dr. Mario?”
My jaw drops, and I narrow my eyes at him, aghast. “You are such a liar, Christopher.” A string of Spanglish nonsense spews out of me when the full weight of his insult hits.
“Uh-oh.” CK moves to step away from me but can’t because of the hold I still have on his shirt.
“Uh-oh is right, mister,” I growl, stepping a foot between his, our chests bumping. “Blasphemous claims about my Dr. Mario skills will only have me seeking retribution.”
I already know the perfect punishment. Thank god for Amazon Prime.
“Causing women to curse my name seems to be the theme of the night.” I’d laugh, but the sadness coating CK’s words tells me we’re no longer joking.
“You wanna tell me about it?” I ask softly.
He shrugs, the action causing his shirt to tug inside my grip.
“Ugh…take this off.” I unclench my hands and slip them beneath the hem, my fingers flexing at the feel of his warm skin.
CK sucks in a breath, the definition of his abdominals growing as his stomach goes concave at my touch.
We both freeze, our gazes crashing together through the lenses of his glasses.
Finally, he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and I find myself mirroring the action—though it’s a struggle for me because my hormones clog my throat.
Smoothing my palms around to CK’s sides, I glide them up his torso, bringing the shirt with me. I have to bite down on my lip until the coppery taste of blood hits my tongue to restrain a moan at both the feel and sight of him. Inch by inch, his body is exposed to my gaze as I lift the cotton higher.
I may not be the shortest girl who lives here and he may not be the tallest guy, but still, I have to rise up onto my toes. This time when my chest brushes against his, I’m the one sucking in a shuddered breath, acutely aware of how hard my nipples are as they drag along his body.