Page 5 of Wicked Mistletoe

God, this is humiliating. I want to crawl under the table and disappear. Or maybe sprint out of the library and never look back. Yeah, that’s it. Just stand up, grab my bag, and run. I could transfer schools again. Change my name. Move to another country…

But I’m rooted to the seat, waiting for his response. Anything. But he’s just sitting there, cool as ever. How am I supposed to focus on anything when he looks like that? Handsome, so damn handsome—Godammit, stop it.

Then, as if nothing just happened, he asks, “Why don’t you go first?”

I frown, confused. “Huh?”

“Tell me something nobody knows about you, something you hate,” he elaborates.

Oh, right. My brain scrambles, trying to catch up. We’re seriously just going to pretend I didn’t just completely humiliate myself? Okay, then.

I clear my throat, grasping for some semblance of control. Still, I hesitate, unsure if I should share. But finally, I give in. “My middle name is Azalea.” Only Dad knows, and I don’t even know why I’m telling him. Maybe I’ve gone mad.

But he perks up like that’s the most fascinating thing he’s heard all week. “Azalea, like the flowers?”

“Yes.” I’m thrown off by his sudden enthusiasm. Is he mocking me or genuinely intrigued?

“Interesting.” He seems to look at me with new eyes, and I frown, wondering why that is. “They’re beautiful flowers. Why do you hate the name?”

I watch my index finger as I tap it on the table. “Because it’s none of your business. Your turn.”

Silence.

I glance up with a frown, but when he responds, his face is distant, detached. “I hate being backed into a corner and told what to do,” he says, voice flat, almost robotic. “I don’t like being tutored either.”

My lips part in surprise.Are you kidding me? I just gave him something real, and he gives me the most obvious, surface-level answer? Anger flares in my chest, hot and sudden. Is this all a game to him? Two can play at that.

He notices my frustration and, of course, his smirk returns. “So, when do we start our lessons?”

I want to tell him to shove it, but instead, I take a deep breath and flip to a random page in the textbook. “We start now.”

My heart races as I glance at Rafael from the corner of my eye. My mind is a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Dad would have an aneurysm if he knew I was in this truck right now. Hell, he practically did when I told him I was tutoring Rafael last week. He’s deep into an investigation on Alfonso Moretti, Rafael’s dad, and when I mentioned the tutoring, he flipped out and forbade me from continuing.Absolutely not, Emilia!he’d thundered, face redder than a fire engine.That boy is trouble, just like his father!

But Dad’s wrong. God, he’s so wrong it’s almost funny. Rafael isn’t trouble like his dad—I know he’s not—despite what the gossip mill churns out.

I sneak another look at him. Sure, he’s got that bad boy vibe nailed down, but beneath that persona, he’s got more depth than people realize. Biting my lip, I think back to our study sessions. It’s not that he needs tutoring, per se. What he needs is someone to light a fire under his ass. Once he’s motivated? The guy’s actually brilliant. Like, “make-Einstein-look-slow” brilliant.

If only I could make Dad see that. But how do you convince a bullheaded detective that the son of his prime suspect isn’t the devil incarnate?

“What? See something you like?” Rafael’s cocky voice pulls me from my thoughts. That trademark smirk plays on his lips as he spares me a glance.

Heat creeps up my neck. Busted. “Oh my God, watch where you’re driving,” I deflect, scooting closer to the window and hugging it dramatically as I stare at the winter wonderland outside. Yep, because awkward is my specialty.

His rich chuckle fills the truck as we slowly pull up in front of my apartment. “We’re here anyway. See you tomorrow,piccola.”

“I told you not to call me that,” I grumble, snatching my backpack from between my legs.

Unlocking the car door, I chance one last glance at him, and instantly regret it. Our gazes collide, and suddenly I’m drowning in those eyes again. Shit. Flustered, I practically tumble out of his truck.

I wave at him to go, but he just shrugs and leans back in his seat, looking infuriatingly comfortable. I roll my eyes as I spin around and climb up the front stairs, but inside I’m floating. The warmth I feel has nothing to do with my threadbare jacket and everything to do with the boy in the truck.

This is only the third time he has driven me home, but each time, he waits. Waits until I’m safely inside before leaving. As soon as the door shuts behind me, he honks and then drives off. It’s a small gesture, but it makes my heart do somersaults.

I bypass the perpetually broken elevators and trudge up the stairs to our sixth-floor apartment. By the time I reach our door, I’m wheezing while rummaging through my bag for my keys. Note to self: do cardio.

The apartment is eerily quiet when I enter. With a sigh, I flick on the TV for some semblance of life on my way to my room. There, homework gets neatly arranged on my desk—a habit Dad drilled into me—before I change into comfy clothes and return to the living room.

Our two-bedroom apartment is more like a sardine can with walls. The living room, kitchen, and dining area are one cramped space, everything squished together like a game of Tetris gone wrong.

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