Page 13 of Raspados & Regret

I laugh despite myself, but it gets cut short when Fabián walks past me with another cooler.

Not close enough to touch. Close enough for me to smell the faint hint of motor oil, cologne, and sweat.

The smell should not do anything to me—it totally does something to me.

Something with no common sense. I turn away so fast my glasses slip down my nose. Anita notices, and her grin turns feral.

Nope. We aren’t doing this today.

I grab one of the many bags of ice from the back of the trailer and hoist it against my chest, letting the cold bite through my shirt, which should help.

It, in fact, does not.

Fabián chooses that exact moment to bend over the table in front of me to adjust the extension cord for the raspado machine. His crop top rides up and his waistband dips. The happy trail appears again, dark against brown skin, disappearing into charcoal Dickies that sit low enough to make me question every confident statement I have ever made about myself.

My mouth goes dry—which is impressive, considering I’m holding twenty pounds of ice. I stare, and I know I’m staring. My eyes are attached to the view by cable ties. There’s no escape. A tiny silver bar flashes through the armhole of his shirt when he moves, right where his nipple is. It catches on the cotton, then disappears.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

No.

Is his nipple pierced? Both of them?

Fabián Salcedo, angry mechanic, human thundercloud, and man who once told me my haircut looked like “a cry for help with gel in it,” has pierced nipples.

I need to sit down. Strike that, I need to lie down and stop looking before I embarrass my ancestors.

“You good, Lalo?”

I jolt so hard the bag of ice slips, but I catch it against my stomach with an ugly grunt. Fabián is still bent over the table, but his head is turned, eyes now on me. His expression is the same as always, annoyed and guarded.

But his mouth twitches.

Damn him.

“I’m good,” I say. “Never been better.”

His eyes drop to the ice smashed against my chest. “You sure about that?”

“Worried about me now, Salcedo?” I raise my brow.

“No.”

What a fucking liar. “You asked?”

“You looked like you were losing a fight with frozen water.” He mumbles while he zip-ties the cords together.

“I was checking its quality,” I huff.

“By hugging it?” He snaps his back around and gives me a blank stare.

“Call it customer service.”

His mouth twitches again. No, that’s not a smile… Fabián doesn’t smile.

Fabián looks like he thinks smiling is how the government tracks you. Still, that little almost-smile hits me harder than it should. It turns his whole face into something way more dangerous. Less “I’ll ruin your day” and more “I’ll ruin your standards.”

This summer is going to suck balls.