“That’s the nickname the boys gave me, yes.”
Suddenly it made perfect sense. El Jefe.Boss. Nico’s mysterious godfather.
His motivational phrases, as quoted by Nico, included such gems asall the important people in the world hire people to think for them.Philosophically intriguing. Academically useless to a sixteen-year-old failing three subjects.
“And how long have you known I was tutoring your godson?” she demanded.
Rafael leaned against the kitchen bench, arms crossed, indulging her interrogation. He gave a little shrug that got right under her skin. “Long enough.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” she ground out.
“Would it have changed your mind about tutoring him?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I’m glad I didn’t,” he said soberly. “He listens to you.”
Bea’s posture faltered a little. She sank into the dining chair.
Her lips parted, poised to argue, but no words came. She reached for the upper hand again, even if her voice was too soft to land it. “Apparently he also listens to El Jefe’s advice about women. Histerribleadvice about women,” she punctuated.
“He and his friends have sixteen-year-old brains,” Rafael drawled. “I can’t be held responsible for the translation.”
Bea shot him a look. “You do realize they practically worship you?”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Then maybe stop handing out wisdom they’re not equipped to process.”
“That’s why he needs you,” he said, then smirked. “Or who knows how I’ll corrupt him.”
She narrowed her eyes while simultaneously hiding her smile behind a sip of water. Rafael had a way of doing exactly this: make her bristle feel like something far too close to enjoyment.
“You haven’t told him, have you?”
She knew who he meant. “No.”
“You should.”
She leaned back, arms crossed loosely. Not guarded, unsure. “Why?”
She expected a joke. Something flippant. He didn’t give her that.
“Because I don’t like that you’re getting hurt, and that I can’t protect you.” His voice was lower now. Rasped like heat across bare skin. “So lethimdo it.”
A slow thrum started in her chest and spread outward.
“I don’t need protection,” she said, deflecting from the acute tension of the moment.
“Maybe not. But nothing hits harder than knowing your girl got hurt on your watch.”
Her mind tried to scoff, to file it under Rafael-being-Rafael, but her body wasn’t listening. Her lungs pulled too shallow. She looked away before he saw it. “I’ll think about it.”
He glanced at the bowl of noodles. “Mind if I steal a bite?”
Her fingers tapped the rim of the bowl once, then again. She didn’t answer, just nudged it an inch forward. When he continued to wait patiently, she moved it another inch.
He sat. Used her chopsticks like a pro, taking a large bite. His mouth curved, green eyes lit like a fuse. “You can cook.”
