Page 28

The mere thought sends shivers down my spine and fills my stomach with hundreds of butterflies.

“I guess nerves would make sense if he were the first guy I actually wanted to commit to.”

She grins. “Now that is a perfect plan.”

— ¤ —

I should’ve said no, but it is too late for that now…

I should be back home; instead, I am standing in front of a grocery store in the middle of Brooklyn, clutching two sweating plastic cups, one salted caramel frappe, and my usual cold brew.

I look like a complete idiot.

Parked a safe distance behind me is a black SUV. I don’t even have to look to know Silvio and Franco are inside, watching my every move so they can snitch to Rafael.

Oh, God… I hope they don’t snitch about how dumb I look.

“This is stupid,” I grumble to myself.

The condensation from the cups is making my palms slick, and I’m way too nervous. No… the word is unsure.

I am unsure of telling him about the boyfriend thing, and when I get nervous and unsure, my brain does what my brain does best… Overthink the fuck out of this situation.

Was getting him a frappe the right choice?

Do people who are dating actually do this, or am I being too extra? How extra is extra? And why is it called extra? Isn’t extra something good? Don’t we all want a little extra of everything?

Oh, God… Shut up, Oliver.

I look at my reflection in the grocery store’s glass door. I spent forty minutes trying to make my hair look “effortlessly messy,” but now I just think I look like a Twilight vampire.

My heart is racing again, the exact same way it did when Damián’s mouth was hovering an inch from mine.

Ugh…. Why am I here? I could have sent him a message…

No, that’s stupid. I can’t leave a digital trail.

I could have waited for him to contact me… but then I wouldn’t get to see him.

I shudder.

Oh, my God… I wouldn’t get to see him again? Who are you, Oliver? I ask myself, completely disgusted by this new, cringey version of me.

No, abort mission.

Backtrack now, and let’s get the hell out of here.

I spin around, fully ready to get into my black Escalade and pretend this entire morning never happened, when the shop door jingles open.

“Oliver?”

Crap.

I turn slowly and see Damián standing there with a brown paper bag tucked under one arm. He’s wearing baggy grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt that clings to his shoulders, and wow… Who knew zero effort could look that unfairly good?

“Frappe surprise,” I offer… my voice is a pitch higher than I’d like, but at least I manage to force a smile.

He smiles back, amused. “Is that a thing?”