I sigh and shake my head. Here I go, thinking about another woman’s man. I know better.
We’ll both find life partners at some point, and I don’t want to lose him. If we want any chance of maintaining our friendship, we can’t be so close. The texts, the late-night calls before Vegas. His skilled mouth on me.
That last one.Whew.
Focus.
The point is, I’m not supposed to fall for him.
With the burner off, I shuffle to an overhead cabinet for a bowl and scream at the figure on my back porch. It’s more of aneep!, one Celia’s version of the Afro-Peruvian classic smothers. So much for signaling my pending doom to the neighbors.
I twist down the dial on the portable music player Antonio bought. Another housewarming gift that fits perfectly with my retro-style kitchen. It will be the final memory I have before the person outside of my home goes on a murdering spree and steals my food.
Hiding isn’t an option. The blinds are up on the back door. Whoever is out there has a full view of me frozen in place like a deer before it messes up your deductible. The window isn’t big enough to climb through. Breaking in through the door is a different story.
I’m not ending up onThe First 48.
I reach for a weapon and startle at a tap.
“Doe, it’s me,” Antonio says against glass now painted with his breath.
“Why didn’t you go to the front?”
“I did. I rang the doorbell, and I called.”
I wipe the sweat from my brow and roll my eyes at the tongs in my hand. What was I going to do with these, flip him over in a skillet?
I expected him to be on my front porch when I got home around noon. He wasn’t, and he’s been silent since yesterday’s vague text, which I have yet to decipher. My exasperated sigh becomes a gasp when I open the door.
Light from the kitchen streaks the edges of Antonio’s face. Our gazes catch like it’s the first time we’re seeing each other, but it’s only been two weeks—fifteen days, if we want to be specific.
My bare feet retreat on their own once he steps inside and locks the door. His eyes slide down the blue paisley midi dress I wear around the house and land on my cotton candy pedicure. My kitchen is functional, but it’s tiny. Now that he’s sucked all the air out of the room, it feels the size of a dollhouse.
“Food.” I blink away the lust clouding my judgment and my urge to crack a window. “I made food. For dinner.” I fumble withthe spatula and stirsancochothat doesn’t need stirring. Fluffing rice and checking an oven I never turned on buy me time to slow my heart rate.
My breath gets more audible with every step he takes to reach me. His chest rises and falls when it makes contact with my back, the hard ridges of muscle under a cream Henley pressed firmly against me.
Do not inhale his pheromones. He must be jet-lagged. Maybe a little high.
I do a Jean-Claude Van Damme split reaching for a formula or equation, something to focus on that’s not Antonio’s hands trailing up my arms, which are now peppered in goosebumps.
“I missed you,” he says, prickling the tiny hairs on my neck.
“Yes, same.” I double-check that all of the burners are off. He must really be jet-lagged. “It’s part of the season, right? You away in different cities.” An image of him impaling Kenya flares my nostrils.Be his friend. “Meeting new people and playing different teams. Old friends. Do you want rice? It has pigeon peas. Not sure if you’ve had them before, but they have a nutty flavor.”Don’t think about nuts.“Great source of protein and iron.”
“Miriam.” His thumbs rest over the straps of my dress.
What is he doing?
“Th-thepataconesare a little crispy but they still taste good.”
“Miriam.”
“This confuses me,” I whisper, damn near out of breath. Between my stomping heartbeat and the sensation building between my thighs, I’m at my limit. “Whatever this is has to stop.” I won’t let him mess up his first relationship.
“Yeah?” His voice is low, rough.
“Yes.” I swallow a moan at the heat from his fingers down my back.
