Page 76 of Resisting Isaac
“You need to behave.”
He scratches the stubble on his chin. “If memory serves, spitfire, you prefer it when I misbehave.”
“Cool it, cowboy,” I scold him, backing away before I do something stupid like let him slip his fingers inside my swimsuit.
He props easily against the tree where the horses are tied. “You came over here, dirty girl. Haven’t you heard? There’s a no fraternization policy.”
He makes sure to enunciate every syllable of fraternization. The ass.
I make a point to glare at him before I return to the crew.
This man is going to be the death of me. And yet, he’s the only one who makes me feel alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
elena
I’ve been pacing his damn porch for five full minutes like a delivery driver unsure if she’s at the right house.
The foil-covered container in my hands is still warm. Not piping, but close enough to qualify as made-with-love territory.Not that I’d admit to that.
They’re tamales. My abuela's recipe. Pork with red chile—shredded by hand, the masa just the right balance of fluffy and rich. I spent the entire evening making them like some apron-wearing domestic goddess even though I swore I’d never be that girl.
And yet here I am, looking like a criminal about to commit an act of kindness.
I wanted to thank him.
For the hot springs scene. For making me laugh. For loosening the knot in my chest that’s been tightening since I was a kid.
But now it feels dumb, like a way over the top response to what was probably just him messing around.
I crouch to set the container down, fully prepared to vanish into the night when the door swings open.
Of course it does.
“Do I need to start leaving out a saucer of milk or something?”
Isaac’s voice is low, amused, and entirely too soft for how badly it makes me flinch.
I freeze. Half crouched. Like a raccoon caught in the act.
He leans against the doorframe in only dark sweatpants, bare chested, barefoot, messy hair and a lazy smile that I hate to admit is growing on me.
“Is that what I think it is?” he asks, glancing at the container. “Looks like humble pie.”
“Ha. Ha.” I straighten slowly, gripping the dish like I might change my mind about handing it over. “It’s . . . just some food I made.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You made food for me?”
I hesitate too long. His grin widens.
“No. It’s for the horses.”
“Easy, spitfire.”
I shrug and push the container into his chest. “You said you liked spicy but not too spicy.”
“I likeyouspicy,” he says, simultaneously taking the dish and pulling me in by the wrist before I can bolt.
