Page 49 of Nacho Boyfriend

“You don’t owe me anything,” I say. “And these women will castrate me if I don’t pay. You’re actually doing me a favor.”

She huffs. “I feel terrible now.”

“Why? Can’t a man buy his girlfriend nice things?”

She looks over her shoulder into the shop and back at me. I gently tip her chin up with my thumb.

“You could give me a thank you kiss.”

“Are they watching us?” she asks, fixing her wide eyes on mine.

I flick my gaze to the shop window. “I think so.”

Olive bites her bottom lip and lets her gaze fall to my mouth. “I guess a little one would be appropriate. Under the circumstances.”

She elevates herself on her tiptoes and I bend to meet her halfway, brushing my lips on hers in a featherlight kiss. It’s over in less than a second, but a current of electric power surges through me for several moments after, shooting sparks down to my navel.

“That should do the trick,” she says.

She has no idea.

For the next hour, I can’t get the feel of her kiss off my lips. We circle back around, hitting all the stores on the opposite side of the street because they are oh so different from all the rest.

I trail a few feet behind the women in case they zip into a store on a whim without warning me. Olive falls into step with Mom and Abuela like the third musketeer—shopping bags swinging, the way she sways side to side as she walks, her absurd Christmas leggings clinging to her body. How is she not baking in this heat? And I swear, if I catch any guy rubbernecking as she passes by, I’ll rearrange his face.

Finally, we stop at an open-air food court to eat. Tables are scarce so Olive and I find a four-top and hang onto all the shopping bags while Mom and Abuela decide what they want.

Olive looks around at the food vendors.

“What do you want to eat?” she asks.

I shrug. “Probably a burrito or something.”

“You’re going to be disappointed,” she sing-songs.

“What makes you think that?”

She ticks her head to the side, giving me a playful grin. “Because you’ll end up comparing it to the burritos at your restaurant and it will ruin the experience for you. Trust me. Get the sushi or something.”

She has a point there.

“I don’t know if I trust the sushi in a place like this. It’s pretty hard to mess up beans and tortillas.”

“Suit yourself.”

She scrolls her phone for a minute and I take the opportunity to study her. She has a devil-may-care style—those printed leggings and Crocs—like she’s oblivious to the whole world of fashion. She marches to her own beat and somehow that makes her beauty unparalleled.

“Aren’t you hot?” I ask, at last getting my burning question out there.

She looks up from her phone and winks. “Thanks. I’m glad you noticed.”

“I mean in temperature. Those pants.”

“You’re wearing pants,” she says, looking at my jeans.

“And I’m feeling a little warm. It’s hotter than the devil’s armpit downtown.”

“Maybe you should try leggings.”