Page 53 of Burn for You

“No, no, no, that was because Jack is orwaswith Marisol. He’s protective of his sister, you said so yourself,” I nod to Marina.

“He is, but now I’m thinking there was something else to it.”

“Uh-huh, okay Marina.” I drain the rest of my glass before placing it on the bar top. I don’t need to be thinking about that at all. I refuse to believe he was angry for any other reason. Even though I threaded my fingers through his. Even though he said ‘she is my business,’ I’m not going to lie to myself about the way that made my stomach flip. But I’m also not about to admit that to these two. They don’t need any more ammunition to spin a delusion.

“I’m going home.”

“It's home now, is it?” Isla says.

I ignore the knowing look in her eyes, the way she’s looking at me like she knows something that I don't.

I slip off my stool and flip them the bird as I turn to leave. “Night shit stirrers.”

I pushopen the gigantic front door with my ass and take a step inside. I can smell something delicious float up my nostrils, and it is not coming from the pizza box I’m balancing in my arms.

I set my keys in the bowl on the side table beside the door and slip off my shoes before making my way into the kitchen. Rafael looks up from where he’s standing at the cooktop. “Hey.”

“Hey.” And then we fall into silence. He continues whatever he’s doing in the kitchen as I drop the pizza box on the kitchen counter, which is louder than I meant it to be.

He walks over to the small radio sitting on the countertop and turns the big knob, turning up the music I didn’t even notice was playing.

“I didn’t know you liked The Beaches."

“There are lots of things you don’t know about me, Whitley,” he says, not taking his eyes from his project at hand.

“Well, that sounds ominous.”

I can feel his glare, even though he’s not looking at me. He’s right though. I know next to nothing about him. It’s kind of weird, it’s like I’m living with a stranger. He almost feels more like a stranger the longer this goes on. Like I know less and less the more time I spend with him.

This pizza is disgusting. I flip the lid shut after just one piece, picking up the box and walking it over to the rubbish bin. It doesn’t quite fit, so I start shoving. Folding the box and forcing it into the bin under the sink with a grunt.

“You should really stop ordering take outs to a chef's house; it’s insulting.”

I turn around, folding my arms in front of me as I lean back against the counter. “It’s not like you’re offering your services,” I spit. I can’t help it. Pissed off is my default when it comes to him.

Rafael finally looks over at me. “I cook every night. It’s not my fault you never come out of your room.”

“Oh yeah, cause your hospitality is sooo welcoming.”

He drops the wooden spoon he was mindlessly stirring around the pan and strides over to me. He swears in Italian as he cages me in, his hands on either side of me, leaning on the counter.

His face is inches from mine, a frown wrinkling between his brows, as usual.

“What?” I ask, my voice firm as I lift my head.

He wants to intimidate me? Not gonna happen.

His eyes survey my face, going from feature to feature, like he’s calculating the distance between my eyes. Time feels like it stands still. It feels like we’ve been here not for seconds, but minutes. Every breath that passes feeling slightly longer, and every second heat builds in my body, every spot that Rafael’s dark eyes roam over burns in his trail.

“You look like youreallywant me to touch you right now,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Like you’re aching to know what it would’ve felt like if I did more than just watch you that night.”

My heart is drumming in my chest, a steady beat I can feel in every corner of my body. The thing is, I don’t know if he’s wrong, but like hell am I ever going to admit it. “I think it’s you that’s dying for it. That has to physically hold yourself back from touching me.” His eyes dip to my lips before he meets my gaze again.

This close, it’s like I can see every thought swimming around in those brown eyes, can see the inner debate. It’s like how people say the eyes are the window into the soul. But it’s like this window is frosted over, and I can only see movements and shadows, unable to decipher what’s really going on behind it.

I hear the sizzle of the pan from across the room, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I look over his shoulder. “You better get that.”

His eyes snap back to mine and stay there. It’s as if he’smemorizing me, memorizing this moment. His nostrils flare before he presses off the counter and goes back to the cooktop.

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