"You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple." He leans over and kisses me, quick and firm. "Everything else is just details."
We climb out of the truck, and I'm immediately hit with cold air and the smell of something cooking. Garlic and tomatoes and bread. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven't eaten since lunch.
Carlos takes my hand as we walk up the porch steps, and I let him. Let everyone see. Let them know.
The front door swings open before we reach it.
Nacho stands there in his sheriff's uniform, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Well," he says slowly, eyes tracking from our joined hands to my disaster hair to the mark on my neck. "Someone had fun."
My face goes nuclear. I can feel the heat spreading from my cheeks down my neck to my chest.
"Nacho," Carlos says casually, like we didn't just get caught looking like we rolled around in the back of a truck. Which we did. "Dinner ready?"
"Almost." Nacho's lips twitch. "You might want to fix your shirt, hermano. It's inside out."
Carlos looks down. His shirt is, in fact, inside out.
"Huh." He shrugs. "So it is."
I want to die. Just sink into the porch and cease to exist.
"Come on." Nacho steps aside to let us in, but not before shooting me a look that's equal parts amused and knowing. "Sergio made lasagna. And he's been asking where you two disappeared to for the last hour."
"We went for a drive," I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near panicked. "Just needed some air."
"Uh huh." Nacho's grin is wicked. "Air. Right. That's what we're calling it now."
Carlos laughs and pulls me inside, past Nacho's knowing smirk, into the warmth of the house.
The kitchen is chaos.
Sergio stands at the stove, stirring something in a large pot. Pedro sits at the table with papers spread out in front of him, probably work stuff. Both of them look up when we enter.
Sergio's eyes do the same track Nacho's did. Hands. Hair. Neck. His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his gaze. Something heated.
"Productive drive?" he asks mildly.
"Very," Carlos says at the same time I squeak out, "We just talked."
Pedro snorts. Doesn't even look up from his papers. "You've got a hickey the size of Texas, Jessica. You didn't just talk."
I clap my hand over my neck. "I do not."
"Left side," he says helpfully. "About two inches below your ear. Pretty impressive work, actually."
"I hate all of you," I announce to the room.
"No you don't," Nacho says, settling into a chair with a beer. "You love us. That's the whole problem."
The word hangs in the air.
Love.
I said it to Carlos. Admitted it out loud. And now it's here in this kitchen with all of them watching me, waiting to see how I'll react.
