Come What May

Gently, I knock her hand away and make a mental note to get her something to chew on so she doesn’t eat her cheeks raw.

“Seraphine, did you drive here?”

She shakes her head back and forth lazily before falling face-first into my chest.

“Let’s get you inside,” I murmur, moving her back to an upright position.

“No, let’s get you inside… me.” Her voice is a lazy drawl that sends shivers up my spine—and not the good kind. To hear her talk like this is unnerving, and the thought of how this night could’ve have ended without Desi’s intervention is downright terrifying.

“Inside the car, mariposita, the car.”

I unlock my truck with my free hand and swing open the passenger side door. She squeals as I pluck her off the ground and swing her up into the cab. “Ooh, dizzy.” She flings herself against the seatback.

“You good?” Despite the flush in her cheeks, she’s looking a little green around the gills.

“Mmm-nun-uh,” she mumbles before buckling over and puking all over my floorboard.

I do my best to smooth her hair away from her face, whispering words of comfort to her, all the while trying not to think about what it’ll take to get the stench of her vomit out of my ride.

After one final heave, Seraphine rights herself, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth as she sits up. “Oh, wow.” She smacks her lips. “That was gross—oh! Mateo, shit. Sorry. About your truck. And stuff.”

She’s talking a mile a minute now.

“Feel better?”

“Soooo much. Like really good. Great.”

It’s going to be a long fucking night is all I can think as I lean into the cab to pull her seat belt across her, trying like hell not to gag. “Good. Let’s get outta here.”

“Where are we going?” she asks, bouncing in the seat like a small child.

“Loca,” I mutter, shaking my head as I close her door and round the front of the truck to the driver’s side.Chapter FourSeraphine“Wake up, mariposita,” a deep voice whispers in my ear, pulling me away from the most fucked-up dream I’ve had in a while—it involved the fair, frat boys, and Mateo—oh, shit.

I try to ask why he’s in my bed, but nothing more than a croak comes out as pain robs me of my ability to speak.

“Take your time,” he says from his spot beside me.

I roll my lips inward as I let saliva pool in my mouth. The pain is reminiscent of adjusting to braces, only worse. Thankfully, after a few beats, I’m able to get my voice to work, even if it does come out raspy and raw. “Why are you in my bed?”

“I’m not,” he says, grinning. “You’re in mine.”

It’s then I notice the unfamiliar surroundings. Instead of being in my double bed, cocooned in my fluffy white duvet, I’m sprawled out in the middle of a plush, king-sized bed, tucked under the softest gray blanket to ever exist.

“Oh, God. It wasn’t a dream?” It’s a stupid question, because there’s certainly no other reason for me to find myself waking up anywhere near Mateo, much less in his bed.

A quick peek beneath the covers confirms my fears—I’m clad in a pair of should-never-see-the-light-of-day yoga shorts and a threadbare T-shirt, sans bra. Which means, not only has Mateo seen me in this getup, but so has most of the damn town.

“What wasn’t?”

I groan and pull one of the spare pillows over my heated cheeks to hide my shame. “Everything. All of it.”

He pulls my fluffy shield away and gently turns my face toward him. “How do you feel? I’ve got water and Tylenol for you on the nightstand and coffee in the kitchen.”

“Like I got hit by a bus…” I try to recall the details of last night, but I can only grasp bits and pieces. “Or made a lot of bad decisions.”

“Eh.” He shrugs. “Maybe a little bit of both, you know, if you consider going out and getting drugged being hit by a bus.”

“Drugged?” I sit up so fast our foreheads knock together. “Ouch.”

“Mujer cabeza dura.” Mateo rubs at the spot where our skulls collided.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He passes me the bottle of water along with the Tylenol bottle. “Are you okay?”

After hearing I was drugged, the fact that both items are still sealed doesn’t escape my notice. If anything, it makes my heart pitter-patter in my chest a little harder, which is stupid because it’s not like a man like him would ever take notice of me.

Mateo Reyes is a tatted-up, golden-skinned Spanish-speaking devil of a man whose voice alone sends shivers down my spine. I’ve been enamored with him since I was a kid, but he’s never paid much attention to me—except the one time I went psycho on him after he beat my dad in a race. I regretted it instantly, but earlier that morning we found my dad’s health had taken another turn for the worse.