Page 23 of Raspados & Regret

He looks at me for a long second, his gaze dropping to my mouth. Then lower.

My throat.

My chest.

My shorts.

Then slowly back up, and when he speaks, his voice is rough enough to scrape. “Regrettable.”

The word goes through me like a hand under my shirt. I swallow, and he notices that too. His mouth tilts, mean and almost satisfied.

Oh, fuck, he’s learning.

Dangerous.

I should be worried.

I am worried.

I’m also so turned on, which is inconvenient given where we are.

By closing, my mother and Fabián’s tía are glowing from sales and pretending they haven’t been watching us like we’re their favorite telenovela. Junior shows up again near the end, still on crutches, still useless, still making comments under his breath about “raspado rizz.”

Fabián threatens to zip-tie his crutches to the canopy frame.

I almost fall in love.

No.

Not love. No one said anything about love.

After everyone leaves, after the lights are unplugged and the last cooler gets shoved into the trailer, I find myself alone near the back table with Fabián.

For real this time.

The market is mostly empty. Vendors pack up around us, but our families have wandered to the cars with the first load of supplies. The overhead string lights are off. Only the yellow parking lot lamps stay on, making everything look softer and uglier at the same time.

Fabián reaches for the folded table at the same time I do. Our hands bump. Again.

“You do that on purpose?” he asks.

“What? Touch your hand?” I ask. “No. Believe it or not, I have higher standards than you.”

“Like who?” he goads.

“Mmm, if we’re talking men...” I pause and give him a once-over. “Pedro Pascal.”

That makes him laugh. “Good luck with that.”

“Why?” I brush my finger against his. “Jealous?”

His eyes darken, and I hear myself.

Too late.

Fabián steps closer. “You should watch that mouth of yours,” he says.

I smile, but it takes effort this time. “Why?”