Page 46 of Dead Set on You
“Yes, thank you.” Rafael watches me with self-indulgent satisfaction. I glare back. We have a staring contest for the duration of time it takes Cristina’s footsteps to fade.
“Poordear?” I narrow my eyes in suspicion. “What have you done to Cristina?” Cristina, with her no-nonsense Romanian upbringing, should know better than to be Vela’d, but she’s Play-Doh in his hands.
Rafael smirks knowingly, the dimple appearing (as if to show methis is how I tricked her), and he shrugs. “We bonded over mutual interests.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I would, in fact, like to know what a sixty-something, kind, loving Romanian grandmother and a thirty-something, smooth-talking, backstabbing Mexican American bachelor have in common.
“Was it your mutual interest in women’s gymnastics?” I ask, arching a brow in question and earning another dimple-baring smile. A rush of warmth surprises me. He said I wasn’t in hell, but the lack of cold air and oxygen would disagree.
“You’re funny, E. You should let your guard down more often.” His words are a much-needed bucket of ice.
“My guards are intact, thank you very much, and don’t call me that.” I cross my arms, adding another barrier between us. “Any other conditions?”
Rafael, unbothered by my tone or glare, flattens a very male hand against the wall beside my head, his arm muscles cut as if chiseled from stone. The tattoo along his bicep peeks out from beneath his shirt sleeve, and I swear another minute in this bathroom is going to accomplish what the accident didn’t.
I push air through my nose and force my eyes to stay on his face.
“Only one more.” The signature, challenging gleam enters his eyes as he leans in, close enough my breath hitches.
“Okay. What?” I half whisper, half rasp, torn between my desire to put distance between us and my reluctance to concede a step. I make myself tall instead. “My firstborn?”
“Close.” His full lips pull to one side. I have a strong feeling I’m not going to like whatever he’s about to say. “Don’t fall in love with me,” he says, low and husky.
“OhGo-o-o-od,” I groan, covering my face with my hands. “You can’t possibly be the only person in this entire world who can help me.”
“Entire world? Maybe not. But your circle of closest confidants? Possibly.” Humor accentuates his tone, as if this is some joke to him, and it mortifies me further. “Anyway, I thought you’d appreciate that last condition because you—”
I hold up a hand, refusing to look at him. “Stop, please. This is humiliating enough for me without having to waltz down memorylane.” The stroll down Elevator Incident Lane was enough. But another memory of the earlier months at Media Lab tugs at me.
We were sitting through a late-night meeting, during which we had a similar conversation to the one we’re having now. I outlined my very serious, very professional conditions for working together on a local grocer’s account—our first shared client—one of which was that he wouldn’t fall in love with me. It was meant as a joke. A line I’d seen in a movie or read in a book. Light and fun.
Only it wasn’t entirely a joke.
A hopeful (mostly silly) part of me that was slowly learning to open up envisioned the possibility of our friendship evolving. Eventually. Because he was charming and easy to be around. He made me laugh and he’d figured out quite easily how to pull me out of my head, to stop me from overthinking, to get me to loosen up. He’d bring in oversized lunches because he’d always “accidentally” pack extra—usually things I liked. He’d doodle in the corners of my planners or leave ridiculous sticky notes on top of my files—likeThis one’s cursed. Burn it.
So yes, there was a point—one infinitesimal, blink-and-you-miss-it moment in time—when I believed Rafael might be easy to love. How naive I was.
“I’m not trying to humiliate you,” he says, the humor fading. A trick.
“You might be more convincing if I didn’t know you.”
Rafael’s jaw works like he wants to say more, but he drops his hand from the wall. His demeanor shifts, turning serious. Almost like the distance between us has stretched by feet, and it doesn’t have the relief-inducing effect I imagined.
“There’s another thing. Not a condition, but …” He hesitates. I tense immediately. “Just a complication.”
My pulse stutters. “Okay …”
I want to make a joke about the suspense killing me, but the sudden coolness in his gaze sends my anxiety into a sprint.
“They tried reducing your sedation last night.”
My stomach hollows. “What?”
“They lowered the dosage—just a little—to see if your body would start to come back on its own. But … it didn’t go well.” He looks down at his hands. “Your vitals crashed. You were in distress. They had to sedate you again because it wasn’t safe.”
