Page 87 of Dead Set on You
“I know about La Clandestina,” I say, a little too forcefully. Rafael chokes on his food. “You don’t have to lie or hide or anything. It’s all there … in my templates.” I gesture to the paperwork he shoved to the end of the table. “I realize you don’t have any reason to trust me, but you don’t have to hide your accounts. I mean, would it have pissed me off before? Sure. But now … we’ve spent the last few days basically connected to one another, so I thought that perhaps you would maybe …” I didn’t think I would do such a terrible job of getting everything out, but I’m surprising even myself. “What I mean is that as reformed rivals, you could’ve felt comfortable telling me about it.”
Rafael sets his fork back in the carton. “Is that right?”
I shrug, increasingly unsure about going down this path, maybe discovering that he’s still very firmly planted in Evie vs. Rafael territory when I’m …not.
Somehow—terrifyingly—he’s managed to throw me so far off familiar ground these last few days that my checklists will need checklists to get me back on track. But Rafael? He seemsfine—more than fine.
I can’t dwell on it. I won’t.
“I mean, I get it—why you didn’t want to say anything—but I can’t steal an account from you like this, Raf.” I gesture helplessly to plasma me, chuckle awkwardly, and wish I could disappear when he doesn’t respond.
The chairs scrapes against the floor as Rafael pushes from the table, circles around it, and stands so close we’re sharing the same air. I swallow, peering up into his too-intense eyes.
“Evie,” he says, my name on his lips like the roll of thunder on a summer night.
I need to hold on to something, because the way he’s looking at me makes me feel even more unsteady.
I press my hands together instead. “Rafael.”
“It’s not a secret, and it’s not what you think.”
I don’t even know what I think … because mythinkingglitches. Ithinkhe’s beautiful, especially up close. Ithinkhe makes mefeeltoo many things—and forget how tothink. And mostly, IthinkI regret not taking him up on the promise of that kiss when I had the chance.
Rafael continues, “La Clandestina has nothing to do with Media Lab.”
“Oh.” I blink, feeling a blush creep up my neck, feeling like I’m doing a shitty job of not letting him be my distraction. His nearness is to blame. I find myself inching closer.
“It’s a family business, and I’m working on the marketing plan for it. For the launch,” Rafael says a little sheepishly,burying his hands into his pockets, looking at me like he’s expecting me to tear into him at any moment—and I want to, just not in any of the usual Evie vs. Rafael ways.
I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod.
“I was using your templates because they’re fucking helpful and have made my life easier since Media Lab shared them. Also, I wasn’t keeping anything from you—not on purpose, at least. It wasn’t relevant to this.” He gestures between us.
I still don’t trust myself to speak.
He wasn’t hiding anything, and while it’s relief I should feel, the urge to ask theotherquestions barrels into my throat, onto the tip of my tongue. Does he feel this thing I’m feeling? Has it shoved itself somewhere between his ribs and his lungs, and is it making it impossibly difficult for him to breathe and think? Is he distracted too? Is it just me?
I feel breathless—and a little lightheaded—with the need to know, and this plasma me might be brave enough to ask, because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I might not have tomorrow. And if tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, I need to do the brave and stupid things I didn’t do before, things I penned on my bucket list and things I’ve only begun thinking about, and asking my question feels like the brave and stupid thing I need to do right now.
My heart thumping so loudly I can barely hear past it, I take a deep breath and tangle my fingers to keep them from shaking. “Rafael?”
His name is barely a whisper on my lips, which feel parched. I lick my lips.
As if tethered to them, his gaze drops to my mouth and lingers there, long enough that my lips part.
I attempt to drag in a breath of air.
“Evie,” he says, his voice warm and husky. He’s so close I can push up on my feet and relieve my lips of the curiosity of what his mouth might taste and feel like.
He leans in closer.
I imagine I’m physical me, who can feel the press of his body against mine, warm and hard and wanting something I haven’t asked for. Yet.
The intensity in his dark gaze is a dare.Ask, ask, ask,it implores.
I breathe in a shaky breath.
“I think—” I start, heart thundering so loudly I stall.
