I blinked, and they were back to deep brown.
“How about your best smoothie, on the house?”
That easygoing grin was back.
Oh.
“I mean, it’s the least you could do after you sent your attack bird after me,” he said with a small laugh.
I extracted myself from his arms and went back inside the shack, trying to ignore all the heated signals my body was giving me—especially what felt suspiciously like disappointment in my gut.
My best smoothie was more of a mangonada.
I started the blender, grabbed my knife, and sliced the fruit without looking at him.
He sat down on one of my stools, leaning over the counter.
“You seem disappointed. Were you expecting a different answer?”
“Just so you know, the bird does whatever he wants.”
“Oh, that much is obvious.” He glared up at the roof, and I heard an unbothered coo.
I rimmed a glass with chamoy and Tajín, then poured in the smoothie and added fruit to the top until the glass barely stayed upright.
“Your prize, Tibby.”
He chuckled, grabbing the elaborate creation.
“You know, you may have caught me in a mildly embarrassing content-creation situation, but despite what you think, I’m not going to make a girl fuck me for losing a pull-up contest.”
He held my gaze as I glared at him.
“Should I give you another prize for not being a total piece of shit?”
The irony wasn’t lost on me. That was exactly what I was trying to do to him.
“If it’s another one of these smoothies, then definitely.”
He licked the chamoy from the rim, his tongue curling?—
No.
Stop it right now.
Goddamn it, he saw.
“But if a beautiful, strong and suspiciously seagull-accompanied woman was interested, I wouldn’t say no.”
“Who says I’m interested?”
“Who says I was talking about you? I know tons of women who have seagulls at their beck and call.”
As if summoned, El Soldado flapped down onto the counter, squawked, and he threw him a piece of mango.
The bird swallowed it in one gulp, then stared at me with that unblinking, all-seeing stare.
Don’t be stubborn.
