Page 19 of The Last Sunrise

“Julián, this is Prisha. Say hi,” Amara nudges him.

Julián turns on his charm, which makes my skin itch, warmly smiling at Prisha, greeting her way more kindly than he did me yesterday. I guess he only dislikes American tourists?

Julián reaches for one of the shots without asking, and even though they aren’t technically mine, it annoys me and I move the tray just before he can grab one.

His eyes snap up to mine. “Now you’re guarding the drinks, Miss America?”

“So is it that I’m American that bothers you, since you seem to be nice to everyone else?” I stomp my foot, instantly regretting the choice.

“Nah, it’s that you’re entitled… and American.”

“See! Asshole.” I look at Prisha and Amara to confirm my statement. Prisha smiles and Amara laughs.

“Let’s drink and everyone make nice?” Amara suggests.

I wonder where their other friends are, the ones Amara told me were coming. The ones who were not supposed to include Julián.

“Fine.” I take one of the drinks and hand it to Julián, an olive branch of a gesture.

We each grab one and clink our glasses together, then down the shots. I try my best not to look at Julián, but damn, it’s hard. He’s dressed in a simple salt water–stained T-shirt, linen shorts, and sandals. He has that vibe of not caring what he’s wearing and knowing he just looks good. Then again, with that face and that body, he doesn’t have to put in much effort. He would look sexy in anything. I roll my eyes, and he catches me, raising a brow in curiosity.

“Something bothering you?” he leans in to ask me, his knee slightly knocking into mine. I don’t move.

“Besides you, no,” I respond half-heartedly.

“Hey, that’s not very nice.” When he smiles, I notice the slight overlap of his two front teeth.

“You told me you never want to see me again,” I remind him.

“Yeah, and I meant it. But here we are.” He puts his hands on his bare knees, rubbing them across his skin.

“Shall we call a truce, then, for Amara’s sake? You don’t even have a reason not to like me, and I don’t want to waste any more energy bickering with you.” I grab another shot and down it before he responds.

I watch him count the shots left on the tray. Five. “But it’s fun, no?”

“No.”

“And I don’t need a reason. Neither do you. How many of Fabio’s shots have you had?” he asks, his thick brows drawn together.

I try to count… one at the bar, another with Amara, then another with Prisha too? Am I missing one? Or two? “I don’t know. Like three-ish? Maybe four.”

“You should be careful. I’ve seen a lot of blue vomit coming out of foreigners when they have too many of his shots,” Julián warns, as if he actually cares if I get sick or not.

I tilt my head to the side and look into his eyes. “I bet you have seen a lot,” I mutter, recalling what Amara told me about him hooking up with so many tourists. It shouldn’t bother me. It doesn’t bother me.

Does it?

I grab another and hand one to him, hoping he’s wrong about the whole vomit situation. I inherited my mom’s tolerance, though I don’t drink often, but when in Mallorca…

“Cheers to a night you’re going to regret.” He laughs, downing the shot.

I take mine and watch as he licks the sugar rim of the glass. His tongue moves slowly, each flake of sugar melting as he glides it. My belly flips. My imagination runs wild, flashes of his tongue running along my skin filling my mind.Oh god. I need to get up, get away from him. Him and these shots are not mixing well.

“How do you know her, anyway?” Julián asks Amara, looking at her as if I’m not sitting right there.

“Not such a detective now, are you?” I roll my eyes.

He hasn’t connected the dots to the hotel, the way he so arrogantly did last night.

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