Come What May - L.K. Farlow Page 0,28

though I’ve burned him.

“We can’t,” is all he says before he turns and walks away.

Fury and humiliation flow together in my veins, giving way to burning resentment. Am I a game to him? Is that why he’s been so kind? Help the sad, broken girl only to break her a little more? Well, if that’s the case, I’ll show him.

With my shoulders rolled back and my head held high, I march past where he’s rolling up a section of tarp. He calls my name, but I ignore him. He can fuck right off.

Once I reach the paintbrushes, I bend at the waist, knowing full and well he’s being treated to a view. I give my hips a little wiggle as I collect all of the rollers and paintbrushes into a large bucket to my right.

Mateo groans, and I smile. He thought he could toy with me… lead me on. He’s about to learn—payback’s a bitch and I’m going to serve it up sexier than ever.

“Seraphine,” he says again, frustration coloring his words as I pass by him again.

I still remain silent. That jackass doesn’t deserve my words.

At the sink, I begin rinsing the paint from the brushes, humming softly to keep myself sufficiently distracted.

“Do not ignore me,” he says from behind me, close enough I can feel the heat of his body.

Naturally, I do the opposite of his command and pretend he’s nothing more than a warm, surly shadow.

“Seraphine,” he growls my name before softening his tone. “Please.”

“You wanna hit up a drive-thru once we finish cleaning up? I’m starving.”

“We need to talk about—”

“I’m thinking chicken tenders.” I nod to myself. “Yeah, definitely tenders.”

I hear him groan, but I keep my eyes on the task at hand.

“Eres desesperante.”

“What was that?” I ask, pretending I didn’t hear him versus not having a clue of what he said. From his tone, I think he’s annoyed. Serves him right.

“You are making me crazy!”

I throw the brush I’m washing down into the sink and whip around to face him. “Oh, I make you crazy? Pot meet kettle!”

“What?” He glares at me.

“You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever known. Sometimes I think we’re friends. Other times, I think you can barely tolerate me. And then today, you have the audacity to not only kiss me, but to then act like the taste of my lips repulsed you!”

Mateo honest to God growls. “Repulse me? Mariposita, I would gladly survive off of your taste alone. I could live and die—happily—with the memory of you pressed against me.”

My body practically liquifies at his smooth words. “Then why?”

“You are off-limits. Forbidden.”

“What?” Now I’m the one glaring.

“I told myself a long time ago that I could look but never touch. But the more time we spend together, the more my resolve weakens. You are like a witch, casting a spell, luring me to you. Tempting me. Torturing me.” He squares his shoulders. “But I will not give in. I will stay strong.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, nodding, like his words make sense, even though they don’t. “But why am I off-limits? We’re both adults. We’re obviously both interested. I don’t see the problem.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I wish things were different. Truly, I do.”

The back of my eyes sting with the threat of tears. I turn back toward the sink and resume cleaning the brushes and rollers. “So.” My voice comes out hoarse. “How about those chicken tenders?”

“Yeah, mariposita, that… sounds good.”

Chapter Twelve

Mateo

Our lips barely touched. And yet for an entire week, she’s all I’ve been able to taste. Her scent, her heat, her anger—it’s as if all of it has somehow become a tangible thing, content to follow me around and taunt me over what could have been.

It doesn’t help that I haven’t heard from her since she dropped me off last weekend.

I eye my phone lying on the island and debate reaching for it—I’ve almost texted her more times than I can count, but outside of confirming plans, we’re not really the texting kind of friends.

Still, the way things went down irks me.

How I went from vowing to never act on my lustful feelings for her to shoving my tongue into her mouth is beyond me. Seraphine Reynolds is every single thing I want and nothing I need all tied up in a pretty bow—one I’m itching to untie. Except I know nothing good will come from it. In fact, I’d wager a bet that falling into anything with her would be as catastrophic as opening