I couldn’t stop the heat spreading through me as his fingers traced up my arms to my shoulders. “Then you need to rest.”
“Not yet,” I whispered, eyes closed. We’d never been this close. What if he turned cold again in the morning? “We haven’t finished. Truth or dare?”
His palm cupped my face, thumb stroking along my jaw. “Truth.”
“Why did you take back what you said about kissing me?” Damn it. I didn’t mean to ask. My chest squeezed as I braced for his answer.
He stilled. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
His arms tightened around my waist, pulling me closer. “If I could go back, I wouldn’t take them back.”
The reply died on my tongue. My eyelids grew heavy, the room tilting faster.
As if sensing it, Ash let me go and rose.
Then I was in his arms, my face pressed to his chest as I looped mine around his neck. He laid me gently on the bed, pulled back the comforter, and tucked me in.
The last thing I felt before sleep claimed me was his lips brushing my forehead and a whispered, “Buenas noches, peque.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Asher
From:[email protected]
Subject: previous email
Hi, Miguel
Did you get my email? Hope you’re doing OK. Please respond if you read this. It’s important.
Asher
It felt like begging. Weeks had passed since my first email, and here I was, drafting another despite Miguel’s silence.
I leaned back in my chair and glanced around Vivo Gusto, the small Italian place I’d picked for my birthday lunch with Mom.
Photos of Italian landmarks dotted the dark gray walls, and clusters of customers filled the mismatched tables. From the kitchen door drifted bursts of Italian chatter. Dad would’ve loved this spot—cozy, family-owned, authentic. I sipped water to keep from drowning in memories of him and closed the email app.
I’d promised myself three emails to Miguel, then I’d let it go. Still, hope lingered that he might reply. He used to care about Dad. About me. How could someone just forget?
The restaurant door opened, ushering in a gust of December air. Mom stepped inside, her red lips curving into a smile the instant she spotted me.
I rose as she reached the table. “Happy birthday,” she said, hugging me. For a moment, the sweet scent of her perfume pulled me back to childhood, but I wasn’t a kid anymore. Nothing was the same.
I pulled out her chair. “Thanks. I haven’t ordered—I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”
“Can you smell this?” She sniffed the air. “I want whatever smells that good.”
“Guess you’ll have to be more specific,” I teased as the server approached. We settled on pasta—carbonara for her, arrabbiata for me.
After the waiter poured red wine and left, she raised her glass. “To your twenty-first.”
“Thank you.”
