Jose wiggles his bushy dark eyebrows. “Si, si, si. Now come, come. Tell me all about yourself.”

They walk off down the corridor as I stare after them, left to carry all my equipment and bags by myself. So much for so-called assistants. Jesus, are these two in cahoots already?

Jose’s van is parked out front and I shove everything into the back, grumbling and cursing as I fold my body and legs into the tiny backseat, as Marin and Jose continue their introductory chatter oblivious to my plight. Jose is telling her something that makes her laugh and for some foreign reason, I want to gouge his eyes out for doing what I haven’t been able to do yet.

That’s because you’ve been a prick to her, asshole.

It’s hotter than blazes right now, the complete opposite of what we left behind in New York eight hours ago. I shrug off my jacket, leaving me in my black T-shirt. Marin glances over her shoulder at me, noticing my tight-fitting shirt.

I gain an ounce of satisfaction when I notice the way her pupils dilate as she takes me in. When she notices me smirking, she quickly returns her attention to Jose. But not before I see the blush creep across her cheeks.

I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but by the way her face blooms a rosy-pink hue, and she moistens her lips with her tongue, I’d say she likes what she sees. And maybe feels the same level of attraction that I do.

Which in a word is problematic.

Because if she gives me the green light, it’s all systems go and I’m diving in. Assistant or not.