Page 68 of Dead Set on You
Pre-Coma Evie is running victory circles.
“Spit it out, E,” he says, setting his mug aside. “What’s wrong?”
“Besides the obvious?” I drag my hand along the wall—throughit—for additional clarification.
“Not what I mean. What happened? You’re acting weird.” He narrows his eyes. “Was it a nightmare? Separation anxiety from your planner? What’s making you all …” He waggles his fingers in my direction.
“Hilarious,” I say, gesturing to the door. “Are we going anytime this year?”
Rafael’s mouth opens—then shuts. Whatever he was about to say gets swallowed (along with other maybe-secrets). He swipes a black tee from the back of a chair—because he isthatorganized—and wiggles into it, his toned back stretching with the effort. The cotton clings to him like it missed him. I hate that I notice.
Still turned away, he pats down his pants, then sifts through the chaos on his dining room table.
“Take all the time you need.” I stretch, feigning relaxation. “No rush whatsoever.”
He throws a scowl over his shoulder. “We need keys.”
“You left them by your meal for five.” I offer, gesturing to the kitchen, where abandoned Indian takeout boxes have staged a coup on his countertop. Most are empty.
He smirks. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were body shaming.”
I’m ashamed of my thoughts as they relate to his body. “I wouldn’t be so subtle.”
He laughs—a low rumble—and grabs his keys.
I trail after him to the door, needing him to open it and lead the way. He slows, hand on the door handle. “Ready?”
“I’m absolutelydyingto get this over with,” I say. My smile returns. Suspicion enters his eyes.
He says nothing as we walk to the elevator, but I can feel him watching me. Waiting.
I turn to him abruptly. “You wouldn’t be keeping anything from me, would you?”
His face crinkles in confusion. “There’s plenty I’m keeping from you.”
I roll my eyes. “Not what I meant.”
“Then what do you mean?”
I debate whether to ask. About Lupe’s something. About his call. About the promotion. About why he might be helping me if he’s already gotten it.
The elevator dings, then opens.
I swallow my questions.
An older man, tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose and newspaper under his arm, perks at the sight of Rafael. “Good morning, Raf!”
“Morning, Frankie.” Rafael shakes Frankie’s hand. The elevator doors close, and I’m shoved between the wall and Rafael. He’s distracted by his neighbor’s thoughts on the Bears’ next season, which gives me time to assess. My gaze inches up the length of Rafael’s neck, his jaw, his lips, and linger on his eyes, seeking any evidence of a secret.
See? Nothing suspicious there,Coma Evie says, triumphant.But maybe don’t stare like you’re contemplating having him for dinner.
Mortified, I drop my gaze to my knotted hands.
The elevator takes too long to stop.
When it does, I’m the first one out.
“Have a good day, Raf. It’s nice to see you out and about again.” Frankie waves with his newspaper.
