Page 19 of The Final Deal

I unglue my ass from the couch, wander over to the door, and scissor my fingers between the blinds to peek outside. Warm security lights streak across the yard and pool, but the house is dark. When I check my phone for the time, I do a double take—one a.m. So, of course, Adrian’s grandpa ass is asleep, but Zak is usually awake this late with me.

A gut-gnawing rumble sounds from deep within my stomach. Dree brought me dinner, but he always feeds me healthy shit that leaves me hungry an hour or two later. I chew on my bottom lip and view the yard; the guys probably have some snacks herein the kitchenette, but knowing the twins, they’ve got something tastier in the house I could steal.

The air outside is warm and muggy and tempts me to take a dip in the pool, but I force myself to hurry over the paved walkway to get out of the shadows and into the light of the patio.

When I arrive at the backdoor, my stomach sinks. What if they locked me out? I don’t have a key anymore.

I grab the handle, depress the lever, and push.

The door cracks open.

Don’t have to tell me twice to yank it wide so I can hurry inside.

I quietly shut the door behind me and take a deep breath. I should be safe here, but I’ve been given plenty of reasons to not trust the shadows or darkness anymore.

The kitchen is blissfully cool and quiet. I flip the range light on so I’m not stumbling around in the dark, wincing when it gives a sharpbeep.

Peeking inside the fridge, there’s plenty of fresh fruit inside, but none of it has been prepped. I guess I could rummage through the pantry for something else, but my mouth waters at the thought of Adrian’s favorite snack of frutas y chamoy. Besides, doing something as small as prepping fruit bowls for the twins for them to wake up to would be nice. They are letting me crash here and steal their snacks, after all.

I busy myself washing and drying fruit, pulling out a cutting board and a knife and the variety of containers to chop everything up and toss into bowls. I smile as the bowls fill up—look at me, being all domestic and shit.

Movement at the threshold gives me pause.

“Fucking shit!” I swear and jump when a dark figure moves closer. The knife clatters on the cutting board, and I clutch my chest as I glare at the intruder. “Jesus Christ, you scared me!”

Zak snorts. “Sorry. Wasn’t expecting my favorite midnight snack buddy to be in here.”

I chuckle breathlessly. “Yeah, well, midnight snack buddy is starving. Want a bowl?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he says as he grabs one.

I continue chopping up the rest, and he grabs the Tajin and chamoy to fix up his bowl. But then he sets it aside and takes another bowl to spice it up; then he grabs a couple of forks from a drawer to stick in each bowl and pushes one over the island counter toward me.

When I think he would run for the hills, Zak stays, leaning against the furthermost counter away from me. “Just because I’m in the same room as you right now doesn’t mean it’s okay,” he says. “If I even look at you funny, run for Dree.”

I watch him carefully as he pops a piece of fruit into his mouth. “Then why are you staying?”

“I really wanna hang out with my girlfriend for a minute.”

I pick up the other bowl with a smile, and he returns the beam. “So… video games or guitar?”

He slurps up juice that dribbles over his lip. “Reading.”

The fork with a strawberry pierced at the end pauses midair in front of my face. “Has hell frozen over? Have I stumbled into the Twilight Zone? Are you Zak Ramos?”

He grins brilliantly and chortles. “I have a curandero friend who published his first book. Thought I’d give it a read.”

“Well, alright, then,” I mumble over a mouthful of fruit. “But hell has most likely frozen over still.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

We don’t stop smiling at each other as we chow down. I take the dirty dishware, including his bowl, and intentionally brush my fingers over his.

God, I feel as giddy as I was when we were first dating, when any little touch or glance would make butterflies soar in mystomach and my skin feel like I could combust at any second. It’s a weird mixture of feeling like I’m on cloud nine and obscene curiosity as to why he’s not making so much of a fuss with me being inside the house, in the same room as him, and handling sharp objects that could make me bleed.

The heaviness of my breath matches my nervousness as I face the sink and turn the faucet on. Behind me, he closes all the bowls with lids and piles them into the fridge. I wash the stainless steel blade of the chef’s knife in my hand.

Being in the same room together isn’t the same as me bleeding near him.

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