Page 44 of Dead Set on You
“She will make it. I know it.” Cristina smiles warmly.
“I hope so,” he agrees.
“You shouldn’t lie to good people, Raffy Taffy.” I glare at him. Rafael tenses but doesn’t look away from Cristina, who’s wiping away a stray tear.
“I really should get back to work, Mr. Rafael. The vacuum that needs to be fixed is in the linen closet.” She sniffs once and returns to the kitchen.
“Why are you here?” I plant my hands on my hips. “To make another woman cry?”
“To fix the vacuum.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “And to help you.”
“Sure you are,” I snap, even though my breath catches. He’s lying, I know it. I saw him do it to sweet Cristina.
Rafael mumbles a curse. “We can either argue or figure out what’s happening with you,” he says.
“Why?”
A muscle tics in his jaw. “Let’s just say I’d prefer not to be haunted by Evie Pope’s spirit for the rest of my existence.”
“You’d throw in the towel before you’re thirty-five.”
“That’s this year,” he clarifies.
It’s my turn to smirk. “Exactly.”
Rafael throws a look up at the ceiling. “Dios! There will be no haunting, because I’m serious about helping you.”
I almost laugh. I’d bet there’s more than the promotion that’s made him come back. There has to be something else fueling this, something beyond just assurance of future ghost-free dates and hauntless nights, something he’s choosing to keep from me.
“What changed your mind?” I ask, watching him closely.
“Gemma.”
I gape, hopeful and surprised. “You told her about me?”
“Nope, but she confirmed some things.”
“Like?”
Rafael’s lips twitch in a way that makes me nervous. “The location of a birthmark, among other things.”
Oh.
I scan his face for the lie.
I consider pushing, but to what end? To loop back to square one?
So I let it drop.
“Okay, then, what’s the catch?” I ask, playing along. Maybe it’s not just about the promotion. Maybe there’s more. The truth is, he’s here, and he’s the only one who can help. But whatever his reasons, in my experience there’s always fine print. A hidden trap. A shoe waiting to drop.
“No catch,” he says. “Only conditions.”
“So, condition number one,” Rafael says, leaning against the door of my guest bathroom. We’re crammed inside, barely two feet between us and the shower at my back. “You don’t disrupt when I’m interacting with other people. If I’m having a conversation and you chime in, it’s going to look questionable—make me seem crazy—and I’d rather not have to explain myself.”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from reminding Rafael that heis, in several ways, a little crazy. He buys the same socks so he doesn’t have to sort them. He sits at least ten feet away from bodies of water, kiddie pools included. And he prefers pineapple on his pizza. I shudder at the thought.
“So, when we go back out there and I have to help Cristina fix the vacuum, not a peep. No back seat repairing,” Rafael clarifies, his voice barely above a whisper. It’s hard not to roll my eyes at the insinuation that I’d instruct him how to do it the correct way. I knownothingabout vacuums.
