Page 22 of Raspados & Regret

My heart kicks once, hard, and I smile because that’s what I do when my knees try to file a complaint.

“You wanna test that?”

His eyes fall to my mouth again. This time, he doesn’t hide it. A burst of heat rushes through me so sharply I almost sway.

Then someone behind us says, “Can I get a mango with extra condensed milk?”

Fabián straightens up like the cops just raided the booth, and I turn so fast I nearly knock over the tub. A teenage boy stands at the counter, looking between us with the blank expression of someone who knows he interrupted something but values dessert more than survival.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice too high. I clear my throat. “Yeah, I gotcha.”

Fabián mutters something under his breath and stalks off with the trash.

I make the raspado—badly. Too much syrup. Not enough ice. I forget the spoon.

The kid takes it anyway and leaves fast. I lean over and brace both hands on the table and stare at nothing.

I’m fine.

This is fine.

It’s just the heat and stress, maybe a little dehydration.

He steps back behind the booth, and I look at him.

He looks at me.

Neither of us says anything. Then he reaches for a towel, wipes sweat from the side of his neck, and the hem of his shirt lifts again.

I close my eyes and send up a prayer to whatever saint is listening to let this night just end.

“Problem?” he asks.

I open them, and his expression is blank.

Bastard.

“So… you always dress this slutty for oil changes?” I ask, motioning to his outfit.

His eyebrows lift, and for one second, I think I’ve gone too far. Then he looks me up and down, slow and insulting, from my glasses to my shorts to my sneakers and back.

“You always dress like a lifeguard for people who can’t swim straight?”

My mouth drops open, and I laugh.

I can’t help it.

It bursts out of me loud enough that two vendors look over. Fabián watches me like he didn’t expect it. Like my laugh hit somewhere he wasn’t guarding. His face changes—softens just enough to scare the shit out of me.

So I do what I always do.

I ruin it.

“Careful, Salcedo,” I say. “That almost sounded like flirting.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t flirt.”

“Yeah?” I lean against the table, pulse still racing, mouth still reckless. “Then what do you call this?”