Chapter 27
chapter twenty-seven
LEO
A breeze whistles past my car window as it flies down the street, jolting me awake. I blink before rubbing my eyes, and I reach for the takeaway cup that sits in the center console, tipping it up to catch any remaining drops of caffeine on my tongue, but nothing lands.
I look over at Marisol’s place to see the dim light on in the living room, but the light from the TV isn’t flashing through the blinds anymore.
I can’t help but wonder if she’s fallen asleep on the couch, or if she simply left the light on, and then my mind does the thing it always does and jumps to the worst-case scenario.
What if something is wrong? It’s past twelve, and she is usually tucked into bed by now. So why is the light still on?
I debate if I’d be able to see through the blinds if I get close enough, and if I can, she’ll be replacing them first thing tomorrow, but I don’t move to get out of the car.
I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier. I should’ve kept my stupid mouth shut, but I feel as if I’ve been wearing a muzzle for weeks. But it’s true. I can’t stop pretending when I’m around her, in so many different ways.
If this thing between us is all pretend, then I’m pretending twenty-four hours a day, and being in the same house as her, seeing her in her glasses and before she brushes her teeth in the morning, isn’t helping me keep any kind of boundaries around my heart.
It’s like my entire life is pretending now, pretending to pretend like I’ve fallen for her when it’s not pretend at all.
Pretending that I’m okay with all of this pretending just to keep her happy, because this needs to work out, and I’m not going to be the one to ruin it for her.
The layers of pretending have all gotten mixed up, and I have no fucking idea how to escape the web we have woven together.
The only thing I could think of was to get a little space, but when I woke up only hours after I fell asleep last night, and Marisol had made her way into the nightmare that continues to haunt me, space was the last thing I wanted.
I had to get here. I had to know she was safe.
Even though I know my mind was playing tricks on me, it didn’t stop the aching need to see it for myself.
I jump at a knock on my window and turn to see Marisol standing in the street outside my door, arms folded across her chest, her hair in a loose braid, and her glasses resting on the bridge of her nose.
I manually wind down my window, and she bends down, resting her folded arms on the frame. She sighs as if she’s already played this conversation out in her head, and she knows exactly how it’s going to end. “Do you want to come in?”
My mouth falls open. That’s not where I thought this was going, but I shake my head. Space. I need space. “No thanks.”
“Sorry, I phrased that wrong.” She gives her head a small shake before locking her gaze back on me. “Get the fuck inside my house.”
A humorless laugh escapes me. “No, Marisol. I’m good right here.
” I settle back into my seat to prove it, but then she’s opening my door, and I can’t help but notice the long pink pajama set she is wearing.
It’s got little love hearts all over it, and she’s wearing fluffy pink slippers to go with it.
“You’re not sleeping out here, Romano.”
“You’re right.” I scoff. “I’m not sleeping.” I’d be a terrible TV stakeout cop if I fell asleep on the job. I keep my gaze out the front windshield because if I take another look at how fucking adorable she is, I won’t be able to keep a straight face.
Marisol makes a small noise before folding her arms again and straightening her back. “Then I’m not sleeping either.”
My gaze whips to where she stands in her pajamas in the middle of the street. “The fuck you aren’t,” I say. We never speak to each other like this, like we are bickering teenagers. “Get back inside. You’ll catch a cold.”
“It’s seventeen degrees, and that’s a fucking myth.” Bickering teenagers.
“Go to bed, Marisol.”
“The only way you’re getting me back in that house is if you come with me.
” I stare her down, and she raises her brows.
“You can be a broody bodyguard in the spare bedroom for all I care, but you’re not staying out here.
” We stay looking at each other for what feels like thirty minutes, and when I think she’ll concede and go back inside, she folds her legs and sits down on the concrete.
I swing my legs out of the car and reach for her. “Get up.” She scoots out of my grasp, and I feel my nostrils flare as frustration builds in the muscles of my jaw.
“Make me,” she says, and my mind flies down so many different avenues at two simple words. This girl is a danger to society.
I almost growl as I stand up and make the two steps it takes me to get to her before I reach down and wrap my arms around her torso, swinging her up to the point where she wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck.
I want to turn around and slam her back into the side of my car and kiss her until I forget my own fucking name, but when she says, “Let’s go inside,” I can’t do anything but comply.
I reluctantly take one hand from her body to shut the car door behind me before I cross the road and walk up the three steps to Marisol’s front door, all while she clings to me.
“What’s the security code?” I ask, and when I move my head to look at her face instead of over her shoulder, our noses brush.
Her breath skates along my lip as she breathes. “Four-two-two-three-six-one.”
I could do it right now, press my lips to hers, and ruin everything. It might be worth it just to taste her, even if it’s only once.
Fuck.
I don’t think I’ve ever had so much self-control in my entire life, but I told Marisol I would follow her lead, told her that she was in the driver’s seat with this thing. She has to be the one to ruin it. It can’t be me.
I look back over her shoulder, punching in the numbers and watching as the little light turns green. I release my grip on Marisol, my hands catching her under her ass as she slides down my front until her feet hit the ground.
If anything was going to make that self-control snap, it was that right there.
I inhale a deep breath and immediately regret it. The sweet, addictive smell of vanilla and caramel invades my every thought of resistance, taking me back to the night I truly touched her. When I got to feel her smooth skin under my palm.
Fuck me dead. I should’ve stayed in my car.
Marisol pushes the door open, but not before sending me a look that I don’t have the brain power to decipher right now. I trail in after her, setting the alarm again once I close the door behind me.
“I have to make the bed,” she says, but her voice wobbles as she darts into another room, and I take the moment to center myself, to think about anything but the situation I am currently in.
Marisol comes back with her arms full, a set of sheets, a comforter, and two pillows, obscuring her view. I move to take the pillows from her, and she leads me down the hall. “This is the spare room,” she says as she pushes open the door.
The walls are a soft shade of green, and she has a big piece of floral artwork adorning the wall above the bed.
Small picture frames litter the top of a wooden dresser—pictures of her and Rafael outside Olive&Vine, some ridiculous selfies of her and Sabrina, old photos of her parents and her nonna.
Everyone who has ever meant anything to her, all gathered here together.
But there’s one photo lying face up, no frame yet, and when I pick it up, I see myself.
It’s the photo Elio took of the two of us at the photoshoot.
She printed it out to go here with all the others.
I drop the photo back onto the wooden surface as Marisol drops the sheets onto the bed.
She flicks her braid over her shoulder as she picks up the fitted sheet, attempting to fan it out.
I hold in a small laugh as I grab the other side of the fabric, finding the corners and tucking them under the mattress.
We work quietly as we make the bed together, each of us sliding a pillowcase over the pillows I abandoned on the floor when I noticed the photograph.
This all feels very domestic, and I try not to let my mind wander, imagining all the other domestic things we could do together.
Like grocery shopping or arguing over bathroom tiles. Maybe in that other life.
We pull the comforter over the bed, and Marisol throws a blanket over the end of it, even though it’s a warm night, as she so kindly reminded me outside.
“Perfect,” she sighs.
“Perfect,” I repeat, finding myself unsure of how to behave. We go from caring for each other to fighting, to being entirely too close for me to know how to act in these quiet moments.
She tilts her head and rounds the bed to take my hand in her small one. “Try to get some sleep, please.”
I rub my thumb over her delicate knuckles, letting myself soak up the feeling of having her this close, hoping to dream about this instead. “I’ll try.”