Sweet As Sin

29

I was bummed that my pleasant buzz and the earlier sweet, sexy mood had evaporated, but I wouldn’t be deterred. “Okay . . . so are you going to tell me whose story it is?”

The tension returned to his body. That didn’t make me happy. I withdrew again, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Look. This whole trust thing has to go both ways. I know you had a life before me, and I don’t expect a laundry list of all the things that happened in it. Strike that—I don’t want a laundry list. Your past is your own business. But you’re asking a lot if you expect me to take every strange thing you say on faith. Mystery is great. Mystery I can take, because mysteries eventually get solved. But secrets?” I shook my head. “I’m not so good with those. If we’re going to get closer, you’re going to have to let me in. That’s part of the deal.”

Seeing his stricken expression, I softened a bit. “Amazingly romantic gestures like a yard full of flowers and mariachis notwithstanding.”

He stood there breathing shallowly. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or not, until he pulled me against his chest and gave me a hard kiss, edged with desperation. He broke away suddenly. “f**k. I’m not good at this. Please don’t be mad at me. I just don’t know what the f**k I’m doin’ here.”

A pang of pain speared my chest. “Doing here? You mean, with me?”

“No! God, no, that wasn’t what I meant! I mean this—” he squeezed me—“us! I’m not a relationship guy, Kat. I’ve never done this s**t before.”

Shit? Our relationship was s**t?

He saw my expression, and groaned. “Christ. She’s thinkin’ too much again.”

“Stop referring to me in the third person!” I was so mad, I could have stomped my foot. I wanted to stomp his foot.

Suddenly he loomed over me. Large and intimidating, he grasped my face and held me inches from his own. “Listen to me!”

That got my attention. He began speaking in a rapid-fire, urgent voice.

“I’m gonna say a lot of s**t that doesn’t come out right and I’m probably gonna do a lot of s**t that pisses you off because I’m a stubborn motherfucker who’s used to answerin’ to no one and doin’ whatever the f**k he wants, whenever the f**k he wants! But I’m into you, and you’re into me, and we’re gonna give each other the benefit of the doubt until one of us f***s up, and then we’re gonna talk about the fuckup and move past it! Because I’m not gonna let the girl of my dreams walk away over some stupid s**t like my dumbass ways or her need to overanalyze every little thing!”

Ouch. That stung. Mostly because it was true: I did overanalyze. I could spend half an hour in the shampoo aisle at the store trying to decide which I needed more, moisture or shine. But then I forgot about that part and rewound, disbelieving what I’d heard.

I whispered, “Girl of your dreams?”

He shook his head, amazed by my ignorance. “You think I fly in the best mariachi band from Mexico for every crazy broad I know? You think I regularly buy jewelry for women I haven’t even f****d? You think I’d stand here in the street with that old lady glarin’ daggers at my back—” he jerked his head. Through her living room window, old Mrs. Lewis was indeed glaring daggers at his back—“lettin’ you cross-examine me, if I didn’t think you were the girl of my dreams?”

The sweet, sexy feeling was making a reappearance. I decided the cross-examination could wait until tomorrow, after all the alcohol had worn off. “I’m guessing . . . no?”

He said gruffly, “You’re fuckin’ right, no!”

Behind us, the mariachi band ended the song with a flourish. Grace and Chloe clapped enthusiastically, and Chloe squealed something that included the word “love.”

Of course that was the only thing I heard.

Nico said, “Now gimme a kiss before I send you back to your girls and your main man Ryan fuckin’ Gosling.”

He didn’t wait for me to say anything, he just kissed me again. When I was sure I’d pass out from want, he pulled away and stared into my eyes. “Tomorrow.”

It was a promise and a threat, rolled into one. Tomorrow, if I saw him, would make date number three. I had the sneaking suspicion he knew all along exactly how the three-date rule worked, and whatever dance we’d been doing up to now would turn into something else entirely.

Something I was equally desperate for and terrified of.

I nodded. “Tomorrow.” More softly, I added, “And thank you, Nico, for all of this. It’s amazing. This is the best birthday I’ve had in a really long time. As long as I can remember.”

Nico’s smile was dazzling. His eyes glinted devilish blue. Without another word, he climbed on his bike, revved it up, and roared off down the dark street.

I watched him go. He hadn’t worn a helmet.

When he was out of sight around the corner, I made my way back to Chloe and Grace, and stood arm in arm with them as the mariachi band launched into another song. Some of the neighbors strolled over to enjoy the music, and even old Mrs. Lewis seemed content, watching from her window, nodding her head.

I was happy. It was my birthday, and things were good.

But in one small, quiet corner of my heart, a voice had begun to repeat itself. It was a voice I was intimately familiar with. One I knew from past experience I should heed.

Watch out. Too good to be true always is.

I had no idea, then, just how devastatingly right that voice would turn out to be.