Page 88 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Fuck!” I whisper-yell, darting across the room.
I snatch it right as the door handle turns, throwing myself into the closet and closing the door.
The space inside is ridiculously small—barely big enough for one person, let alone two. We’re pressed together, chest to thigh. A sliver of light slips through the door frame. Bryce’s eyes sparkle in the dark, locked on to mine. His unsteady breathing matches mine.
I fumble for my phone, my hands shaking. I switch it to silent. The screen illuminates our faces in the tiny space. Bryce nods, pulling out his phone and doing the same.
Through the thin closet door, Gavin’s tone switches into pitching mode. “That’s exactly right, Marcus. Heartvest was built on the principle that financial literacy shouldn’t be a luxury reserved for the wealthy…”
I type a message to Bryce.
Me:He won’t be long. Promised Fiona no more work today.
Bryce nods, eyes fixed on me as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The butterflies in my stomach are having a flutter orgy as I write.
Me:Why did you wear that outfit?
He pauses.
Moneybags:Because I promised you I would. And… also figured I owed you after what happened yesterday.
Me:Owed me for what? An apology for the kiss, or for mistaking me for your girlfriend while you were sun-drunk?
His response comes lightning fast.
Moneybags:For taking something I had no right to take.
Me:What if I wanted you to, but I thought you were still with Amanda?
He starts to speak then catches himself.
Moneybags:Gavin told you.
Me:Yeah. Bright side, now I know you’re not a cheating dickhole.
Moneybags:Christ, Pip. That must have looked… I’m sorry. I never meant to put you in that position. The idea that you thought I could be that kind of man… I would never be unfaithful. Never.
Gavin’s muffled voice shifts gears. “Listen, Marcus, I better finish up. It’s my wedding week, and my fiancée is blowing up my phone. You know how it is—got to keep the future Mrs. Brinkman happy, or her old man will stick me with the catering bill!” His laughter fills the room.
My pulse hammers against my throat as I type out the question that could change everything.
Me:So yesterday in the jungle… was that a heat-induced hallucination, or did you actually want me?
He stares at his screen. I detect the telltale vibration of his anxious finger drumming against his leg. The nervous habit makes me bolder.
Me:Because… I want you.
I watch as the tiny dots on my phone appear and disappear—a dance of indecision. He writes, then deletes. Starts typing… and deletes again. Then, without warning, he powers off his phone like the conversation is over—and shoves it deep into his pocket.
Fuck.I pushed too hard.Way to go, Petra.I turn off my phone too, the little glow winking out as I shove it into the waistband of my stupid swimsuit.
The silence in the tiny closet is suffocating. I’m grateful for the darkness hiding the mortification burning my cheeks, the sting behind my eyes that I refuse to acknowledge.
And then, his hands capture my jaw and he seals his mouth over mine.
He’s kissing me.
The impact detonates my system like a nuclear bomb, sending shockwaves of heat and electricity racing through every nerve ending. When I inhale sharply against his lips, he takes ruthless advantage, his tongue sweeping inside with the kind of controlled aggression that makes my spine melt.
