Page 35 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“That funky smell? Matcha,” she says, grabbing a dough ball and tossing it into her mouth like popcorn. “Fancy word for ‘dirt that tastes expensive.’ Matcha chocolate chip, my specialty.”
“You… make cookie dough to freeze?” I ask, trying to imagine this menace in eyeliner whisking away in the kitchen.
“Pro tip for single life survival: Always have emergency cookie dough on standby. My friends and I make giant batches and freeze ’em. Then when life sucks—and spoiler alert, it always sucks—you can reward yourself with warm cookies on demand.”
I press the bag to my ribs and hiss as the ice-cold dough sears against my skin. “Christ!”
“Aww. Poor baby. Billion-dollar body, two-cent pain tolerance.”
I grunt, repositioning the bag. “Are these ‘friends’ guys?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to bite them back.
Smooth, Sterling. Real subtle.
“Spying for my brother, B?” she teases. “Tsk, tsk. Very uncool.” She pops another ball of dough onto her tongue. “Not men. Katie and Camila. My besties from college.” She licks a smudge of chocolate from her thumb with deliberate slowness. “But for the record, dudes dolovemy cookies, if you want to include that in your little spy report for Gavin.”
I adjust the makeshift ice pack over my heart to hide the heat creeping up my neck. Pain ignites. “Holy mother of—”
“You definitely need drugs. I’m making dinner, and you’re eating. I’ve got painkillers that require food.” She heads toward her kitchen area then glances back with a devilish grin. “But if you want a cookie, you better be a good boy and take your medicine.”
The words “good boy” in that husky voice of hers does irreparable damage to my insides.
While Petra bangs around in her sorry excuse for a kitchen, I take the opportunity to further examine my surroundings.
Stacks of textbooks are shoved into every available space—Contract Law, Property Law, Civil Procedure. Thick volumes with sticky notes and highlighter explosions leaking out the sides.
Law books?
I push up off the couch with a groan, wandering over to the closest stack. I open my mouth to ask—Why law books?—but then something else catches my eye.
A record player.
Not just any record player.
Therecord player.
The same vintage turntable that was in her teenage bedroom, perched atop a milk crate overflowing with vinyl. The exact setup from that graduation night seven years ago when she kissed me and my world slowed down—for a fleeting moment.
“This is quite a collection you’ve got here,” I say, flipping through the albums.
“Well, there’s no Mozart in there, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
I keep flipping. Led Zeppelin. Fleetwood Mac. Nirvana.
And then—
Heart. TheirBad Animalsalbum.
My pulse spikes. The primitive art design on the cover reminds me of Petra herself—raw, powerful, untamed. But more importantly, it holds track two, the song that was playing when her lips touched mine.
“Mind if I play something?” I say before my brain can stop me.
“If you think you can resurrect that fried record player, be my guest. It’s been dead for months. Which sucks because pawning that thing was my backup plan to make rent this month. My ‘Nips for Tips’ campaign’s been underperforming lately. Guess even the creeps are on a budget in this economy.”
I slide the album back into the milk crate as she approaches, juggling two mismatched bowls in her hands.
“Dinner is served, Your Highness. Feast of champions. Zero Michelin stars guaranteed.”
