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“Snitching isn’t attractive, old woman.”
“Neither is coming here without my favorite cookies.” That pointed look is harmless to me. Her huff of annoyance tells me she knows it, too. Thiago, on the other hand, has fallen for it. “That’s a horrible thing to do.”
“You’ll have three dozen first thing in the morning and dinner catered all week.”
“Much better.” Slowly, Dora walks over and taps my cheek with her small hand. Her expression is knowing. “Never make that mistake again, De Leon. I’m old and small, but mess with my sweets—our arrangement—and I’ll complain to the woman you fear the most.”
“And who’s that?”
“Amberlyn Ibarra.”
16
Five and a half years ago…
I’M FLOATING, water lapping at my bikini-covered breasts while the sun warms my cheeks. The shore isn’t far from where I am, and yet, I hear the group laughing—the loud music playing—as if I were sitting among them.
Instead, though, I’m in my own world.
Thinking. Daydreaming. Eyes closed while tipping my head back; I pretend I’m somewhere else.
Living in Miami is fun, and exciting at times, but to me, it’s still not home. I miss Tampa, my family, and my friends there. I miss being accepted and not looked at like a favor they’re doing. Like someone who tags along without being truly invited.
Not all do. Just a small few, but they matter more than most.
No one is outright rude, but you get that feeling. A look—a fake smile. If only they paid attention to where my eyes always wander. Who my smiles are really for.
Not that I don't understand; after two years, I’m still an outsider to them. Or maybe I try too hard.
Luna is as possessive as Thiago.
Natasha is protective of her family.
The rest follow the leaders.
While Ivan continues to ignore my crush. Yet his secret smiles when no one is looking give me hope. That maybe he sees me too.
“What’re doing, Mermaid?” His voice comes from behind me, close enough that I feel his warmth on the back of my neck, and at once, goose bumps rise on my skin. Shivers rush through me. “Why are you out here by yourself?”
“Because I enjoy my solitude.”
“I don’t like it.”
“But I do.”
“What if I forbid it?”
That makes me turn, meeting his warm, soft eyes. Like he understands more than I want him to. “Why does it matter?”
“It does.”
“That’s not—”
“Come with me,” he interrupts, hand raising to push a few wet strands of hair back and off my neck. Those fingers linger there and then trace from my neck to jaw before cupping my face. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
“Why don’t you stay with me instead?” It’s hard, but I fight the urge to nuzzle my face into his palm. “Maybe take a swim further out?”
“Swim?”
