Page 90 of Dead Set on You
I shouldn’t be surprised he knows this other thing about me, but not many people know I love it when my food fights back. “Looks like I wasn’t the only one spying …”
Rafael shrugs casually. “Needed to know what I was up against.”
His words spark an image—me, pinned to the shelves, his mouth trailing fire down my skin, my fingers tangled in his hair, legs locked around him like live wire.
I forget to breathe.
“What’s wrong?” Rafael stalls in the aisle, watching me with panicked concern, the humor gone.
“Erm. Nothing.” I press a hand to my cheek.
“Are you sure?”
“Tell me more about the peppers,” I say, a little too breathlessly, and gesture at the cart for him to move.
His all-knowing eyes linger.
Feeling like I’ve just downed a bag of chilis, I turn away, hiding my face. I pretend to be consumed by the containers of driedand pickled vegetables, even though soup making is the farthest thing from my mind.
Seconds later, Rafael is pushing the cart again and explaining the magic of fresh produce and perfect ingredients as we wind our way through the market, which isn’t very busy so late in the day, which makes it easier for Rafael to talk to his invisible friend (me).
We arrive at the cash register, where Rafael speaks to the middle-aged cashier in Spanish. I don’t need to understand what she’s saying to know she’s being Vela’d. While her hands pick up and scan the produce, her eyes never stray from Rafael. It’s fascinating to see him in his element, making people feel seen and important regardless of who they are. Meeting them at their level. Smiling without reserve.
If he were an ingredient, Rafael would most certainly be a hot pepper. The Vela chili.
“Thinking about me again?” He casts me a devilish grin as the doors slide open. An older couple eye him curiously.
I scoff, marching out the door and straight for his truck. “You’re very full of yourself, Rafael. It can’t be healthy.”
The shopping cart squeals behind me. “So you’re not going to tell me?”
“I was not thinking about you!” I throw my hands up in feigned frustration.
“Right.” He opens the truck’s trunk and begins to load in the groceries. I purposely avoid his curious gaze. “You think you’re a good liar.”
“I can be when it serves my purpose,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Is that so?” He tosses in the last bag and closes the space between us, scanning my face for the truth with such intensity I’m surprised I don’t melt onto the pavement. He’s like a furnace … or maybe I am.
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what you were thinking …”
Your hands gripping my thighs.“Peppers.”
His brow shoots up, a dare sparking in his eyes. “Really?”
“Holy shit, if it ain’t Raf Vela!” The voice bellows from our right, and any bit of me that’s been burning is doused in cold, cold water. Freezing, in fact.
I don’t move or breathe as Art Betton, owner of Betton Sporting Goods, saunters across the parking lot toward Rafael and me—toward Rafael, because Art can’t see me. For the first time, I really wish Rafael couldn’t see me either, because right now, with Art heading toward us, the past—Rafael’s betrayal—hits me like a semitruck, painful and completely unexpected.
“Art.” Rafael takes Art’s proffered hand and shakes it once before dropping it.
Art, who is somewhere in his mid-fifties, is short, stocky, and chock-full of cockiness. “It’s been a while,” Art says. “What—two years?”
Rafael nods, but he’s tense.
I wonder if he’s remembering his betrayal—the epic fallout that happened soon after. The day I learned I was kicked off the account, I pulled him into an office and let him have it with enough fire it would put his chilis to shame. I didn’t hold back, and the rest is history.
