Biting my lip, I wrap my arms around my middle as I watch him tuck himself back into his pants and fix his shirt without looking at me.

He might be standing right in front of me, but I get the feeling he’s already gone.

“Did I hurt you?”

At my whispered question, his body jerks like he’s suddenly reminded of my presence, and his gaze comes to me.

“No, Franny,” he says softly, his eyes roaming my face for a long moment before he reaches out brushing his fingers softly along my cheek. “I’m gonna go.”

“Okay.” I swallow over the lump in my throat when his hand drops away and watch him open the door.

“Lock up.” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. One second, he’s there, and then the next, he’s gone.

Going to the door, I flip the lock in place and rest my forehead against the cool metal. Even having zero experience with this kind of situation, I know that was all wrong.

Maybe not the beginning.

The kissing and touching were good—better than good… in fact, better than anything I have ever experienced. But the end...

Shaking my head, I push away from the door and walk to the bathroom. The moment I flip on the light, I’m greeted with my reflection in the mirror. Messy hair, swollen lips, flushed cheeks. I look well-fucked and on the verge of crying, which is absolutely ridiculous.

Going to the shower, I turn it on, then strip out of my clothes before I step under the spray of water. The evidence of what we did is easily washed away, but the memory playing over and over in my head isn’t.

Easing my way down the shower wall to my bottom, I take a seat on the tiled floor and wrap my arms around my legs, dropping my forehead to the tops of my knees.

I should be happy that he left the way he did, that he didn’t stay or attempt to make it complicated. Still, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I messed up by letting him leave, and I for sure messed up by sleeping with him to begin with.

CHAPTER 4

Francisca

“Mom!” I call out as I walk into my parents’ home, with PJ running ahead of me and disappearing out of sight into the living room. I’m sure he’s on the hunt for my mom’s cat, Dallas, who he likes to chase around the house any time we come to visit.

“In the kitchen!” she shouts back.

Kicking off my sandals by the front door, I head down the hall toward the kitchen. The closer I get, the stronger the smell of garlic gets, making my stomach sour and my mouth water—and not in the good way.