Page 12 of Dead Set on You
I breathe out the rest of my doubt and smooth my features into my business-as-usual face.
And then he emerges from the shadows of his room, barefoot and shirtless. Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips. His hair is a wild chestnut mess, and he’s rubbing sleep from his eyes.
The part of me genetically programmed to appreciate the male physique notices the lean, tanned muscles of his chest, the sugar skull tattoo wrapping around his left bicep, and the subtle way his muscles ripple as he moves.
My gaze drifts lower … and I drag it out of the trenches. This is Rafael Vela.
Rival. Thief. The one standing between me and my promotion.
I focus on all the partsabovehis neck and take in a steadying breath.
Game time.
“I can’t wait to hear how you’re going to explain your way out of this one,” I chirp, folding my arms across my chest and arching a freshly threaded brow.
His head snaps up, his eyes widening, and he mutters one of only a handful of Spanish phrases I know. “Dios mío.”
CHAPTER THREETHE DAY AFTER, PART II
“Not even God is going to get you out of this,” I say, feeling smug.
I can almost picture my new office, the one waiting for its new director and some fresh wall decor. With the promotion, I could justify the cost of the prints I saw in a gallery a few weeks agoandcross item #78 off my bucket list.
It’s really hard not to smile, but I need to focus on the present moment: Being pissed at Rafael. Getting much-needed answers about last night. And reminding him that while he may have won a few battles, I’m certainly winning the war.
“You can start by telling me where I can find my purse.”
Rafael doesn’t answer.
He scrubs a hand down his face. Blinks once. Twice. Opens his mouth. Closes it.
“This isn’t possible,” he mutters.
“It’s the first thought I had waking up here.” I tap my heel impatiently. “Purse, Rafael?”
He shakes his head, mumbling to himself—and he smacks the side of his face.
I jolt.
He smacks his other cheek.
I blink at him. “Are you having a stroke?”
Rafael stares. Pales. And gives my plan pause.
If he’s experiencing a medical episode, he’d better have a list of emergency contacts on hand. I wince at the knowledge that my emergency contacts are a long-gone great-aunt and a dad I never met. Rafael, on the other hand? His family once rented an entire hotel for a family reunion. He should be set on that front.
“I’m not taking you to the hospital,” I add, suddenly half tempted to leave this for another time. I’m great at a lot of things, but I don’t do well with blood and unconscious people (not even if it were Rafael).
My stomach folding on itself, I force my thoughts from a comatose Rafael to something better—to me sitting in my new office. Being his boss. Attaining something I’ve worked so long and hard for.
I stand my ground, even though he might be in immediate need of a doctor.
Rafael looks …different. His skin lacks its usual luster, his shoulders slump slightly, and his stubble? That definitely wasn’t there last night.
The stress of the last weeks—months—must have gotten to him too. I know I’ve lost sleep over the OhLaLove account, over the promotion, over all things Rafael-touched.
Still, he looks tired. Like,reallytired.
