And when he leaned forward, and lowered his voice to say, “I’m not, Rosie. I lost it a long time ago. I’m very, very far from being a virgin,” I somehow knew it wasn’t so people wouldn’t overhear.
And boy, was it hot in here? Or was he doing that thing, the one where he turned up the intensity and I felt breathless and warm?
I went with the first thing that crossed my mind and fist-bumped his shoulder. “Good for you!”
Amusement entered his gaze, but he didn’t smile or laugh.
I refocused on my task and moved along the row of crates. “Okay, so what’s the story? I’m intrigued.”
“Lorena Navarro,” Lucas said, following close behind me. “She was my on-and-off girl all through high school. First and only relationship I’ve had.” My ears perked up at that piece of information, pocketing it for later inspection. He continued, “My parents were visiting some family we have in Portugal for the weekend, and Charo, being five years older than me, was doing her own thing. So, I had the house to myself.”
I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t the tiniest bit jealous of this Lorena, even if she belonged in Lucas’s past. “You got her a beautiful bouquet? Lit up the whole place with candles? Put on some body oil?”
Lucas did a double take. “Body oil?”
“Some guys are into it.” I shrugged. “Assface Number Three being one. I—”
“Don’t.” Lucas grunted. “I don’t want to hear more about those idiots.” Yep. The memory was putting me off, too. He scratched the stubble on his chin. “I wasn’t exactly refined as a teenager. My version of a romantic night was convincing Abuela to bake me something and getting the girl her favorite gummy bears.”
“Lucky Lorena Navarro,” I muttered under my breath, meaning every word.
Lucas continued, “I rented a movie, laid the cake and the gummies on the coffee table, and sat really, really close to her. By the time the credits were rolling, a few pieces of clothing were on the floor, and I was doing my thing.” He chuckled. “Or what I thought was my thing back when I was seventeen.”
Holding my breath, I waited for a mental image I knew would stick.
Lucas’s grin was big, unashamed. “I was kneeling on the floor, between Lorena’s legs, trying my best to… you know. Make sure she was enjoying herself, feeling good.” He tipped his head down. And I knew exactly where he was pointing. “And the next thing I know I’m being dragged out of the house by the ear. No recollection of how, except for the fact that Mamá and Abuela were somehow there. And they were pissed.”
My hands flew to my mouth, and God, I tried to hold it in, but laughter escaped through my fingers.
“You laugh, but Abuela refused to bake anything ever again for me.” He shook his head. “The following day, she threw an apron at my face, sat down on a chair, and bossed me around the kitchen until I baked my first cake.”
Finally sobering up, I said, “Well, at least some cherry was popped that week.”
Lucas looked lost in thought for a second, then a burst of deep-belly, boisterous laughter left him.
Feeling elated at being the one that had caused that rowdy, happy sound, it didn’t even come out bitter when I added, “And I’m sure Lorena was happy when she got her Lucas cake.”
He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, I don’t think I ever baked anything for her.”
“Why not? Did she not take you back after that?”
“She took me back. Eventually,” he said, stepping closer to my side, leaning forward until the side of his face lined with mine. “But I don’t go around putting on an apron for just anybody.”
I turned my head and peered into those two chocolate-brown eyes, warmth spreading across my chest, filling every nook and cranny of my rib cage until there was no spot left.
“You don’t?” I asked, feeling my breath coming out choppy and shallow. But you do, for me, I wanted to add.
Lucas’s answer never came. He just said, “Now, stop distracting me and get back to it, Rosie. We’re two embarrassing stories down and no soundtrack yet.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lucas
“Isn’t that another movie soundtrack?” I asked on our way home from the store.
Rosie huffed, staring down at the record in her hands. “Sort of, but this one is different.”
“Different.” Snatching it out of her grip, I inspected it closely. “？‘Dancing Queen’ by ABBA, the single.” I turned the album around. “Isn’t this a little too… ‘girls night out’ for a date?”