Page 77 of Raspados & Regret

I lift both hands. “Ay, ay, relax. This is a family business, not an HBO finale.”

Some people laugh, and the chant dies out. Fabián looks at me, and it looks like gratitude.

Or surprise—almost like he expected me to keep feeding it until it ate us.

I wink at him, and he looks away.

Tiny victory.

I survive on tiny victories for another hour, anyway. Then Fabián starts fighting back. Like a man who realized I’ve been holding the leash all night and decided to chew through it.

It all starts with him standing too close. Not enough for my mom to smack us with towels, but enough that his arm brushes mine every time he reaches for napkins, and so his chain catches the light in the corner of my eye.

Close enough that I can smell him, soap, heat, and engine oil, which is not fair because I have to keep making raspados while my brain replays his mouth on my neck.

When I turn to grab cups, he is there.

When I reach for napkins, his hand’s already on the stack, and when I pass behind him, he shifts back just enough that my chest grazes his back. I hiss through my teeth, but the bastard doesn’t look back at me.

“Careful,” he says, eyes on the tablet.

I lean closer. “You’re in my way.”

“You keep finding me.”

“You’re huge. Kinda hard to miss.”

His mouth twitches, then he says, without looking up, “Too bad you don’t know about all the huge parts of me.”

I freeze with two syrup bottles in hand. My soul leaving my body through the nearest emergency exit. Fabián keeps tapping the screen like he did not just pull a “my big dick” comeback. My face goes hot, and he finally glances over.

Slow. There’s something mean and satisfied in his eyes.

Oh.

So he wants to play.

Fine.

I step around him and lean over the counter toward a group of guys filming us. “Sorry, he’s being cranky because he misses me.”

The group erupts, and Fabián coughs.

He steps closer, voice low. “You think you’re cute?”

“I think you think I’m cute.” I wink.

“I think you like all this attention.” The words coming out rough, almost like he’s annoyed.

“I think you like when I have yours.”

His eyes flash, and he licks his lower lip.

“There,” I say softly. “That’s the face.”

“What face?” He clears his throat.

“The one that says you want to drag me somewhere dark and secluded.”