Page 39 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Late-rent-knocking.
I shrink back into my couch as though I’m a possum playing dead. Maybe if I don’t move, he’ll think I’m a corpse. Or that I joined a doomsday cult. Or that I’m too broke to be worth the hassle.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
“Pip, are you home?”
I fall off the couch. “Bryce?”
“Yeah,” he calls through the door. “You mind letting me in? If I loiter out here much longer, I’m confident I’ll be mugged.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” I hiss, frantically running fingers through my black hair, which only makes it worse. Screw it. He’s already seen my rock-bottom life. What’s a little more humiliation?
“And please note: I am verbally identifying myself. Loudly. So there’s no need for elbowing, kicking, tasing or, really, assault of any kind.”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan, opening the door.
There he is. My heart sighs.
Holding two coffee cups and a pastry bag, standing in the walkway like some absurd fantasy. He’s showered and shaved. His blond hair is neatly styled. The fitted blue suit he’s wearing brings out the deep color in his eyes. His pocket kerchief compliments his tie in a way that confirms someone is paid an obscene amount of money to make sure Bryce Sterling’s accessories coordinate at all times.
“Look who’s back for round two of ‘SlummingIt with Petra.’”
“Didn’t want to wake you. I took a wild guess you’re an espresso drinker.”
I snatch the cup from his hand and our fingers touch. Literal arm-tingling fireworks shoot up my arm. “God, yes,” I moan unashamedly.
Bryce’s mouth twitches, fighting a smile.
I’m so busy having an inappropriate relationship with my espresso that I almost miss the gleaming stretched limo parked at the curb behind him.
“Shit, Moneybags, you can’t roll up in that! People around here will think I reallydosell meth.”
“After last night, you made it clear you can’t be bought. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be bribed to come to Mexico.”
I take another sip of my liquid orgasm, eyeing him over the rim of my cup. “Does the word ‘no’ mean something different to billionaires? Or maybe the voltage scrambled your brain, because I told you I’mnotgoing.”
“Hear me out.” His eyes dance with mischief—an expression I’ve rarely seen on his overly serious face. He reaches behind him and pulls out a cardboard box, setting it at my feet.
It’s a case of Kraft Mac & Cheese.
“Thirty-five boxes,” he says. “Only the good stuff.”
“Glad to see you were listening,” I say, nudging the box with my toe.
“I haven’t finished.” There’s that spark again, that little flash of the real Bryce peeking through the tailored suit. He extends an arm backward and produces another box. “Bribe number two.”
“Let me guess. You got me a yacht?”
Nope. A box of tasers. Actual, honest-to-God tasers.
Cute ones. Small enough to fit in a lipstick tube.
“This special model has the same fifty-thousand volts with a built-in flashlight. Which makes me feel safer about you walking on dark streets alone at night. And I got a dozen so you can have one for your car, in your purse, in your pocket, and multiples here at your apartment.”
“I like the idea of multiples,” I quip before crossing my arms, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my chest.Is he… worried about me?
No! Stay mad. Stay strong. Do not be wooed by electroshock weaponry.
