Page 12 of Serving Bunt

Heat flooded my face. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“You got plans for the break?”

I cleared my throat. “I usually head home to visit my folks, but they’re taking a cruise with my sister and brother-in-law.”

“And you weren’t invited?”

The corner of my lips tilted up. “Yeah, yeah, yuck it up. I love my family, but ain’t no way I’m getting trapped in the middle of the ocean halfway through the season. Have you seen that documentary about the poop cruise?”

Diaz’s expression softened. “Well, we could do something, if you want? You know, hang out or . . . whatever. I’m sure Abuelita would love to force feed you Pastelón.”

“Is that—”

“Plantain lasagna.”

For a second, it felt like old times—the casual teasing and playful banter. But then, I remembered the wedding.

The kiss.

The months of texting, flirting, all while lying about who was on the other end of the phone.

Diaz’s smile faltered, his gaze catching on my face like he’d seen the exact moment it had all come rushing back to me. Just for a second, but it was long enough for me to notice before he recovered.

“I should probably get out of here,” he said quietly. “It’s going to take a while to wash away all the body oil and glitter. I’ll catch you later, Miller.”

He walked off, leaving me alone with my thoughts . . . and wiener.

Ah, hell.

I’d fucked it up. Again.

It seemed like every time he tried to bridge the gap between us, I pushed him away. Every time he offered an olive branch, I set it on fire and then pissed on the ashes.

All because I didn’t trust myself around him. Because I was still carrying around the sting of that initial lie, even though the sharp anger had mostly faded into something closer to regret.

But Diaz wasn’t the only one who had lied.

I had been lying to myself for months about how much I wanted him, how much I missed him.

And here I was, lying again by pretending I was indifferent. Well, I was tired of pretending.

Five days alone together would be dangerous as hell . . . but maybe that was what we needed. Some privacy to talk and fight and figure out whatever was going on between us before one—or both—of us fucked it up beyond repair.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I crossed the room.

“Hey,” I called out to Clarke and Dani. They both looked up, their eyebrows raised. “Count me in. For the baking show thing.”

Clarke’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Two conditions.”

“Name them,” Dani said.

“Mo gets to come, too.” I glanced toward the doorway where Diaz had made his escape. “And Diaz has to be my partner.”

Diaz

Roasters 32–55