His smile is so soft I want to reach out and touch his lips.
“So you’ve changed your mind about love?”
“I don’t know.” Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Maybe the issue isn’t that I’m not destined for romance. Maybe I was just meant for you.”
“Ah.” He nods, pleased. “The drunk confession. Really, a staple of the genre.”
I scoff. “What? I’m not saying this ’cause I’m drunk.”
“Really?Yougenuinelybelieve you were just waiting for me?”
I think about it for a long moment. “Yes, Rafael Gray. I was waiting for you. And you took your sweet time to come back.”
Head shaking, he grins. “I got here as quickly as I could, Freckles.”
We watch each other, and in the pause that follows, I think this would really be the perfect moment for him to kiss me. But he must disagree, because after staring at my lips for a while, he says, “You know, I told your dad that night…” He clears his throat. “I told him I liked his daughter and one day I’d come back for her.”
Hewhat?“Wh-what did he say?”
“That I should be the best version of myself when I did.”
My mouth lifts, even as my chest aches. I know if Dad was here, he’d give us his blessing—not that we’d need it. But this feels like the closest thing to him approving.
“Is that what you were doing all this time away?” I tease.
“Yes, actually. It turns out it takes a while to become someone worthy of being yours.”
Stomach, meet butterflies.
“See?” he whispers, as if sharing a secret. “You’re doing just fine with this romance thing.”
I huff out a chuckle, but it’s short-lived. “People can just be taken away from you, Rafael.” I exhale. “That’swhat I’m scared of. That love always ends with heartbreak. Just like life always ends with death.”
“Maybe.” We’ve reached the front of my house, so I wiggle, expecting him to set me down. Instead, he keeps a firm hold on me. “Yet you can’t help but live, Scarlett. Can you?”
the subplot[trope]
the secondary characters who are up to their own shenanigans and have their own plot points; often more entertaining than the main storyline, the subplot is like the side dish you didn’t order but end up liking more than the entrée
“Oh my fucking God,” I grouch as my eyes open. The light streaming in from the window is worrisome, to say the least—it’s midmorning sun, which means I must be late for work. However, seeing as someone’s playing Whac-A-Mole with my brain, I can’t bring myself to care. “What have I done?”
I open one eye, then the other, memories of last night coming back in flashes. Theo talking about Rafael, then Rafael and me walking home. How he forced me to drink what felt like seven liters of water before letting me fall asleep and then was perfectly happy to have my body thrown over his. Finally, I realize it’s Sunday. I’m off work.
Wait, where is Sherlock?
I straighten, immediately relieved when I see him curled at my feet. Rafael must have fed him again. I pick up my phone and find a text.
Rafael
Good morning, Freckles. I’m not sure how much you remember, so I figured I’d give you a summary of last night. Yes, we cuddled—you insisted, I swear—and that’s all that happened. If you feel a sting in your gorgeous behind, that’s because you fell into a bush. No thorns, I checked. As for the sting in your pride, you have the Macarena to blame. It was adorable. Sherlock has been fed, dessert included. Find breakfast in the kitchen and aspirin on the bedside table. I wish I could have stayed, but I had to go back to my drug empire. Call me later?
I blink a few times, rereading Rafael’s text with growing giddiness. His message is the perfect antidote for the pounding in my head and the soreness from what I vaguely remember as a very embarrassing tumble.
“Adorable, huh?” I murmur, running my fingers through my messy hair as Sherlock stretches luxuriously at my feet. “At least one of us has their life together.”
I climb out of bed, popping the aspirin into my mouth and downing it with the glass of water beside it. I grab my phone again to respond, but before I can, a notification catches my eye: “Inbox (217 unread messages).”
I frown, tapping the icon. My inbox rarely fills up this fast; I get maybe three or four emails a week from listeners of the podcast. My stomach twists as I see the subject lines filling the screen like a tidal wave.
