She tsks while I get a fork. “You could dressun poco mas. Like this, all the boys will follow you home.”
Finally, I glance at Easton. He’s quick to look down at the textbooks in front of him, but I don’t miss the dark flash in his eyes. Apparently, he is not amused.
Arching an eyebrow, I set the bowl directly across from him on the island and push a watermelon cube around with the fork. “Who says I don’t want someone to follow me home?”
Warm gratification floods me when Easton’s grip tightens around his pen. A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he continues working on whatever it is he’s writing without a hitch. I wonder just how far I’d need to push to get him to snap that pen in half.
We might have stare-offs from time to time, but our games are always silent. Throughout the three years I’ve been Easton’s “little sister,” he’s only spoken to me when provoked. Even then, I can count the number of full sentences he’s said to me on one hand. Well, there was one time he said more, though it was a night I was broken. A night I’ll never forget. But that was years ago, and I’ve worked hard to never reveal that side of myself again.
“Jovencita, you do not need another boy following you around.”
“No? Maybe a man then?” I muse, sinking my teeth into a piece of watermelon.
Across the island, the fluid scrawl of pen against paper grows faster, rougher.
“Ay, no. No, no. You need a good boy.” She turns on the faucet to wash her hands. “Uno comoEaston.”
His body stiffens, his pen strokes faltering for half a second. He doesn’t look up from his work when he grumbles, “You give me too much credit, Maria.”
I lick some of the watermelon juice from the corner of my lips. “Hmm, what do you think, Easton?” I taunt. “Would a good boy like you be able to handle a girl like me?”
His gaze slides up, and my heart skips a beat when it lands on mine. My skin burns. His golden-brown eyes are always studying, absorbing every detail. Like a tornado, they catch me when I’m unprepared and don’t release until they’re done with me. His expression darkens, and it raises goose bumps on my bare arms. That single look is all it takes to remind me even “good boys” can be very, very dangerous.
“Don’t beestúpida.” Maria’s voice yanks my focus away, and I let out a breath as Easton returns to his homework. “Of course, he could.” She says it matter-of-factly, like she doesn’t understand why I’d even ask such a silly question. “Perowhy would he when he hasun ángellike Whitney?”
I roll my eyes and shove a watermelon cube into my mouth, but flames simmer under my skin.
The blatant reminder of Easton’s girlfriend should be the quickest way to put out the fire. But if knowing he’s legally bound as my brother for the rest of my life doesn’t do the job, I’m already a lost cause. “Ann thi ii wahhh yoa mah fahrit howkeepah.”
“¿Qué?”
“I seh,”—I pound on my chest with my fist, trying not to choke when I swallow the rest of the watermelon—“this is why you’re my favorite housekeeper.”
She huffs, and I catch the smallest quirk of Easton’s lips. He swipes a palm across his jaw and over his mouth, trying to cover the expression, but I’ve already seen it.
Butterflies swarm in my stomach as I put away the watermelon and glance at my phone. “Well, I have an Uber to catch. I’ll try to keep my pants zipped until I get back.”
Maria shakes her head.
I stop beside Easton on my way out, intentionally brushing his arm with my own when I pick up his glass of orange juice. Like usual, the glass is completely full. It’s not the first time I’ve stolen his beverage. I don’t get why he bothers pouring juice in the first place if he never drinks it.
As I gulp it down, I stare right at him. Daring him to stop me. Of course, he doesn’t. He’d have to talk to me for that to happen.
He just watches. Calm, almost bored, as he reclines in his chair.
My stomach is so full it hurts, but I don’t stop.
Dark amusement passes through his eyes, making mine narrow.
Just for that, I finish every last drop.
I set the empty glass in front of him, smile, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Thanks.”
He cocks a brow, and I walk away with my pulse beating to an all-too-familiar rhythm.
A rhythm I’m shamelessly addicted to.
Eva
