“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!”
“What?” He glares at me.
“You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever known. Sometimes I think we’re friends. Other times, I think you can barely tolerate me. And then today, you have the audacity to not only kiss me, but to then act like the taste of my lips repulsed you!”
Mateo honest to God growls. “Repulse me? Mariposita, I would gladly survive off of your taste alone. I could live and die—happily—with the memory of you pressed against me.”
My body practically liquifies at his smooth words. “Then why?”
“You are off-limits. Forbidden.”
“What?” Now I’m the one glaring.
“I told myself a long time ago that I could look but never touch. But the more time we spend together, the more my resolve weakens. You are like a witch, casting a spell, luring me to you. Tempting me. Torturing me.” He squares his shoulders. “But I will not give in. I will stay strong.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, nodding, like his words make sense, even though they don’t. “But why am I off-limits? We’re both adults. We’re obviously both interested. I don’t see the problem.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I wish things were different. Truly, I do.”
The back of my eyes sting with the threat of tears. I turn back toward the sink and resume cleaning the brushes and rollers. “So.” My voice comes out hoarse. “How about those chicken tenders?”
“Yeah, mariposita, that… sounds good.”Chapter TwelveMateoOur lips barely touched. And yet for an entire week, she’s all I’ve been able to taste. Her scent, her heat, her anger—it’s as if all of it has somehow become a tangible thing, content to follow me around and taunt me over what could have been.
It doesn’t help that I haven’t heard from her since she dropped me off last weekend.
I eye my phone lying on the island and debate reaching for it—I’ve almost texted her more times than I can count, but outside of confirming plans, we’re not really the texting kind of friends.
Still, the way things went down irks me.
How I went from vowing to never act on my lustful feelings for her to shoving my tongue into her mouth is beyond me. Seraphine Reynolds is every single thing I want and nothing I need all tied up in a pretty bow—one I’m itching to untie. Except I know nothing good will come from it. In fact, I’d wager a bet that falling into anything with her would be as catastrophic as opening Pandora’s box.
“Dad!” Desi shoulder checks me as she walks past me into the kitchen. “How much longer are you going to do this?”
I sit up a little straighter on my stool. “Do what?”
My daughter waves her hand in the air in my general direction. “This.”
“Still not following, Des.”
She rolls her eyes in the way only a teenage girl can. “Dad, you know I love you, right?”
I nod.
“Okay, good. Remember that.”
Right as I go to ask her what she means, the sound of the doorbell stops me. “Desi, who is here?”
She mumbles under her breath something that sounds a lot like everyone.
The sound of chimes fills the house again as our mystery visitor presses the bell again. I shoot my meddling daughter a scathing look before vacating my chair to answer the door.
Sure enough, everyone is here. Mamá, Arrón, and Silvi are all packed onto my front porch like sardines. I’m half tempted to close the door and leave them there.
But I would never disrespect my family like that—even if their visit is probably going to end up being some kind of unnecessary, quasi-intervention.
“My son!” my mother cries as she lunges over the threshold to wrap me in a hug. She holds me tight, hugging me as though she hasn’t seen me in ages, when it’s only been a few days.