He pauses, slowly turning back to face me, a delighted sparkle in his eyes. “Really?” he says with pretend surprise. “With what?”
“You know with what.”
“Hmm.” He tilts his head. “I don’t, actually.”
I glare, seething. “My towel is stuck in the door. Which is still better than being a small… petty…bitterman.”
“Is it, though?” he says, chuckling. He walks toward me but veers off toward the side of the house.
“What are you doing?” I call after him, twisting to see where he’s going.
“I’m going to climb through the bathroom window and open the door from the inside,” he says, as if it’s the most reasonable plan in the world.
“No, wait!” I blurt, my voice cracking. My stomach drops as I picture the scene awaiting him: my pink vibrator sitting on the vanity, bold and unavoidable. “You can’t go in.”
He stops, turning back with a confused expression. “Why not?”
“Uh…” My brain scrambles for an excuse. “The house is a mess. Really, you’ll trip over something.”
His brow arches, his interest clearly piqued. “Scarlett, if you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t help you.”
“There’s nothing to say.” I swallow hard as he steps onto the porch, closing the distance between us and sending my heart into a frenzy. “Just, uh, pull the towel free,” I say, trying to sound confident.
He leans in, his arm sliding behind me, his body only inches from mine. His scent—maddeningly cozy and warm—sends a spark racing through me. “The only way you’re getting free without me entering your house,” he says, his breath tickling the skin of my cheek, “is by dropping the towel. Which I’m more than okay with.”
My face flames at the suggestion, and I shift uncomfortably. His proximity, the heat radiating off him, the stupidly hot nose ring—it’s too much.
“Stop flirting with me,” I snap, though my voice is weaker than I’d like.
He shakes his head, a teasing spark in his eyes. “Tell me why I can’t go inside.”
I hesitate, my pride warring with my desperation. Finally, I crack. “I was going to… you know, use my vibrator in the shower, and it’s on the vanity.”
For a moment, he looks genuinely taken aback. Then his grin returns, bigger and brighter than before. “Before a date?”
“Well, it’s not like I’m going to sleep—”
I grimace the second the words leave my mouth, but it’s too late; his laugh, rich and low, rumbles between us. “With Theo? Right. Why would you ever?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I huff. “Leave Theo out of this, please.”
Another car drives by, and I tug the towel up higher, trying to preserve the last shred of my dignity. “Can you help me now?”
“Sure,” Rafael says, far too smug. Instead of walking away, he steps closer, his chest only inches away from the hand I’m using to hold the towel. “As soon as you admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“That I’m the only man in your life.”
My eyes flick to his lips, then away. He leans in, my knuckles brushing against his sweater. “That I’m the only man you want to kiss. The only man you want to fuck.”
My throat constricts, my heart pounding painfully against my ribs. I force myself to meet his gaze, but it’s like trying to stare down a storm. “That’s not all that matters, Rafael.”
Expression softening, he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Then admit that your heart doesn’t beat for anyone else the way it beats for me.”
For a split second, I know it’s true. No one has ever made me feel like this, like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, one breath away from falling, yet also like I’ve finally found my footing. “Please, just… open the door.”
I think I see it. See the fight in him die, see him decide he’s over this. Over apologizing and opening his heart to me. With a sad, crooked smile, he says, “Whatever you want, Freckles,” and stalks around the house without another word.
