Page 93 of Dead Set on You
“That, and—”
“I wanted to sabotage you at every turn?”
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “I hadn’t noticed.”
I mirror his half smile. “I guess I didn’t try hard enough.”
“Could have fooled me.” He holds up his hand, the one with a pale scar across his pointer finger. I wince at the memory of locking him in a janitorial closet before a meeting with the executive team. He cut his finger trying to get out using paper clips and scissors.
“You could have waited.” I attempt to defend the outcome of that day.
“And miss the meeting?” He stares at me with incredulity. “Or your reaction?”
Guilt sends a rush of blood up my neck and into my face at the memory. He walked into the meeting, half out of breath and sheets of paper towel around his bleeding finger. It wasn’t long until the blood seeped through, the sight of it making me faint atop the conference room table. Rafael and I spent the next couple of hours at urgent care. Together.
We both missed the meeting.
“Like I said, it could have all been avoided if you had told me the truth,” I say, going back to Rafael’s (nonexistent) betrayal.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” His gaze is so open and honest it draws me toward him like a rope, a tug-of-war I’m losing. Itake slow steps around the counter, stopping shy of touching him. “Just don’t do it again.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay.” The momentary silence thickens as our gazes remain locked, each second liquifying any sort of wall I’ve ever built to keep him out. I find myself inexplicably drawn to him, like a moth to a flame, a flower to the sun, a bewitched human to a vampire. It makes me want to forgive him for just about anything when his eyes devour me like I’m his favorite meal.
“How about that pozole rojo?” I croak as the yawning crevice in the ground between us begins to close. And when it does—when we’re no longer rivals—what will we be?
You’ll still be a ghost, Evie.
It takes a few hours for Rafael to walk me through his pozole rojo recipe. And if I thought I’d seen Rafael at his best—charming and disarming—I simply hadn’t seen him in a kitchen. His movements are confident and smooth as he navigates pans and bowls, knives and blenders. He tastes as he goes, humming and muttering beneath his breath, explaining each step of the process. I ask questions, but mostly I watch … and admire.
The way his forearms flex as he maneuvers his way around the kitchen. The way his brow crinkles with focus, his lips moving as he measures ingredients aloud.
When it’s finally ready, I’ve never despised not being a living, breathing human more. I want to inhale what I imagine is its decadent scent. I want to taste its rich flavor, chilis and all.
Steam rises from the Instagram-worthy bowl of soup—of which I’ve made him take several photos as proof I was part of making it, even if purely in an observational, ghost-mode role.
“Aren’t you going to try it already?” I prod, admiring his handiwork from my perch on a stool.
Rafael’s gaze connects with mine as he tosses the kitchen towel over his left shoulder and picks up a spoon from the counter, holding it in the air like he’s toasting with it. “I’m trying this for both of us.”
“You could always take some to the hospital.” I struggle to keep a straight face. “Hook up a bowl of it to the feeding tube.”
The spoon halts halfway to his lips, which twitch with displeasure. “You’re a very disturbed person, E.”
I suck on the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling and offer a one-shoulder shrug. “Perhaps the chilis will shock me back to life.”
He shakes his head. “I stand by my statement,” he mumbles, downing the first bite of soup and holding the spoon between his lips as he savors his concoction. I’ve never been more jealous of a spoon.
Oh God.
Iama disturbed person.
“How is it?” I ignore the spoon and his lips as he takes another bite.
Rafael smacks his lips. “Picante, but good. Cousin Jorge Luis couldn’t deny it if he wanted to.” He takes a few more bites of the soup, and I could be content watching him cook and eat for the rest of what could possibly be a very short existence.
I blink away the inception of a Rafael-and-food fantasy and clear my throat. “Are you two close?”
