Page 20 of Face Off With Fate

Confusion flashed through the blue pools of his eyes, creasing the corners. “I don’t sound pissed off all the time.”

“Oh, so you need your ears checked, too. Got it.”

“Do I really sound pissed off every time I talk?”

I blinked. “You’re kidding, right?”

Did he genuinely not realize the deep rumble of his tone came across as perpetually irritated? To be fair, the rasp and slight southern drawl were totally hot, just not when he barked single syllables.

I pulled away, maneuvering around the corner of the coffee table. Lying to myself that I didn’t miss the heat from his hands and shoved mine into my bag.

Tampon, De La Rosa…

“Got it.” I held up my favorite glittery pen, flipping to the section of my diary dedicated to Monroe. The page was already dog-eared and marked up.

“Does that say to ask me if I can speak in full sentences?” His breath skirted over my cheek from behind, close enough to steal mine and raise a flurry of goosebumps along my skin.

My eyelids fluttered closed, and I sucked in a few deep breaths.

I was two seconds away from leaning into him. To resting my head back against his chest and seeing what it felt like to touch him.

But I didn’t.

“Look at that, you can.” I glanced up at where he loomed, smirking at his slack-jawed expression. “Now, read this one aloud to prove it wasn’t a fluke,” I said, holding my pen up to his frown.

He batted the faux mic away, sending little puffs of blue fuzz floating between us. One of them stuck to the bit of scruff above his lip.

“I know how to make a happy face.” His mouth did the opposite, pulling at the corners. The blue stayed put.

I reached up and brushed it away, the tips of my fingers grazing his soft lips, a stark contrast to the coarse hair surrounding them. Electricity zapped between us. He froze, and I jumped back like my ass was on fire.

“Well.” I cleared my throat. “While that was a sentence, it wasn’t, ‘Teach Monroe to make a happy face and make him practice it.’” I gasped, and his frown deepened. “Oh, my gosh, can you not read either?”

“Hilarious. How’s this for a sentence?” He leaned closer, scrambling my brain. “Get. In. My. Truck. Graciella.”

I blinked, his words registering.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Joshua.” I shoved at his chest, pretending I actually moved the giant of a man and he didn’t just take a step back to let me through. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

His deep chuckle slid down my spine, settling low in my body as I stomped away, needing some space before I did something stupid. Punch him…or kiss him. I ducked into the bathroom and shoved the door closed harder than necessary. The click echoed in the cramped space, the wood solid against my back as I sagged against it.

It was barely big enough to breathe, much less think about the life choices that had led to this moment. Mint green tile climbed halfway up the walls, chipped grout creating a maze of lines and intersections. Light streamed through the small privacy window, reflecting off the mirror above the pedestal sink.

I moved toward it, fingers curling around the cold ceramic to brace myself.

Reflected back at me were a pair of dark brown eyes with a frantic edge, tawny cheeks flushed a deeper shade at the apples, and glossy lips pulled between teeth. I tucked a black strand behind my ear, and the woman in the mirror matched the movement.

Get it together, Graciella.

I should be thinking about my pitch for Tommy right now. Not about how, for a split second, my overly romantic brain expected Monroe to say something sweet.

Relationships and love might not be in my future, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying romance. I wanted to be wined and dined and have sweet nothings whispered in my ear.

But that was exactly what they meant—nothing.

I gave myself two minutes to get my shit together and then marched back out with my head held high and boobs out.

“Come, we’re gonna be late,” I said, pulling the front door open to a man mid-knock, standing on the small porch, morning foot traffic to the college milling about on the sidewalk behind him.