And that’s when I hear the unmistakable sound of a glass landing harshly against the island counter behind me.
eight
I immediately straighten, butnot before banging my head on one of the fridge shelves.
“Mateo,” I gasp. Not because I didn’t assume he would be the person lurking behind me, but rather because he is standing behind the island across from me, and he looks like he’s naked. And mad. Mad and naked.
My eyes lose the battle of subtlety and slowly take in his massive chest. His muscles seem to flex in every place my eyes land while I follow the smattering of light chest hair that leads to his happy trail.
As if granting me permission for my perusal, he rounds the island so I can confirm that he is not, in fact, naked.
It’s much worse.
Call me old-fashioned, but I’d like to believe that a rogue penis would cause me to immediately avert my gaze.
But low-hanging gray sweatpants?
Ones that only add emphasis to the deep, grooved V lines that seem to point to where the Holy Grail truly lies keep me frozen in place. And these must be some thin sleep pants, because I can clearly see the outline of his, Jesus Christ, is that thing—
“Isabella.” His gruff voice causes my head to snap up so I meet his eyes. Only then do I realize how badly I’ve stepped in it.
He looks royally pissed. At my nipples, I assume, since his line of sight seems to be focused on my chest. I quickly glance down to make sure I’m not having a nip slip, only to realize that my tank top isn’t currently leaving much to the imagination, since I’m pretty sure my light brown nipples are visible through this white top. The nipples who, not five seconds ago, were fully hanging out inside a very cold refrigerator, seem like they’re trying to poke their way out of confinement.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but my stomach beats me to it.
With an unmistakable noise of distress that seems to last eons, I cover my stomach and whisper, “Sorry. I—”
“Sit,” he commands, and I don’t even give it a second thought before I quickly seat myself on an island stool.
He walks past me and opens the fridge. I can hear him rummaging through it, but I don’t dare to look back. Clearly, my eyes can’t be trusted.
I can hear him plating food, followed by the sound of a few buttons beeping on the microwave. I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to do that, but I’m too afraid that I’ll say the wrong thing.
I hear more plates and utensils being pulled out, as well as ice filling a glass. I try to control my breathing, because knowing that we’re both half-naked in the kitchen together at midnight will probably lead to some inappropriate playtime with my vibrating toys.
I know I shouldn’t, but I probably will.
After a few moments, one muscled arm enters my line of vision and sets a plate large enough to feed a small army, full of all the foods I was salivating over a few moments ago, in front of me. Then his other arm sets a glass of sparkling water to my right. I’m about to thank him and apologize, but he’s back with a massive slice of flan. The same one I brought over this morning to help soften him up to the idea of hiring me.
I’m sure this interaction has only taken a few minutes, but it feels like the silence has stretched on for hours. So, without looking back at him, I take a deep breath and finally say, “Thank you. You didn’t have to do all of this. And, uh, I’m sorry about—”
The words die in my throat as his large hands grip the counter on either side of me, and I feel the heat of his bare chest on my back. I’m taken by surprise, but not enough that my body doesn’t immediately lean back into his slightly.
I can feel his breath on my cheek, his scruff tickles my ear.
I think I’m about to spontaneously combust. Or make a mess on the very expensive stool I’m sitting on at the rate I feel moisture gathering between my legs.
That is, until he finally speaks.
“Strike one.”
nine
“Who pissed in yourCafé Bustelo?”
I look up at Anthony Torres, my catcher and sometimes best friend—when he isn’t working my last nerve—and watch him shake his hand out of his catcher’s glove.
“What?” I grunt. “Can’t catch a fastball anymore? Sorry to say, but you might be losing your touch, man.”