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“My uncle hired him the first summer he had money to do so. Axel bought into the business a few years ago—he’s an equal partner now. He’s great. I spent entire summers following him around, probably annoying the shit out of him while he was trying to work.”

Shaking my head, I stop talking long enough to thank the woman who brings our food over. It’s a lot of food. Dishes cover the whole of the circular table top, and several are so close to the edge that I fear for their safety.

“Hungry?” I ask on a laugh. Smirking, Marcos pulls the nearest plate toward himself. I have no idea what it is.

“I didn’t order any of this. Max likes to say that they serve you what you need, not what you want, here.”

Barking out a laugh, I reach over the table and use a fork to steal some of the food off the plate directly in front of him. When he glares at me, I wink at him.

“You can’t woo me by pilfering my food,” he points out. “In fact, that’s the opposite of wooing. Anti-woo.”

I do it again, just to see the scowl on his face again. Cute. Everything about him is fucking cute.

“I like my chances,” I respond stoutly, and am gratified when I catch the smile on his mouth before he ducks his face to take a bite.

Marcos invites me up to his apartment when I take him home.

I’m walking a step behind him as we head up the stairs, so he doesn’t see the smile on my face.

Being invited inside is big. I’d expected him to send me on my way and dodge any attempts I might have made to make plans for the future.

Instead, he’s holding the door open for me, and watching as I toe off my shoes and look around.

“Max?” he calls, head turned toward a closed door at the end of a hallway to our right. Nobody yells back. “He must be out with Luke.”

“Baseball Luke,” I fill in.

“Yeah. They’re obsessed with each other. Throw a rock at one of them, you’ll hit them both.”

Grinning, I trail after him as we walk barefoot through the apartment. I’m torn between wanting to look around and wanting to stare at Marcos’ very flat, very adorable ass in his boardshorts.

“Must be something in the air,” I muse. “I’m pretty obsessed with you, to be honest.”

He throws a look over his shoulder at me, and I shrug.

It’s true. What other word to describe the unexpected and intense attraction, or the way I am constantly and inexplicably thinking about him, regardless of what I’m doing.

I was already pretty obsessed last semester when we started this thing between us.

After today, I am well beyond the Richter scale.

He holds another door open for me, this one leading into his bedroom.

I do look away from his butt now, interested in seeing where he sleeps.

The room is dark, with little in the way of natural light coming through the window at this time of day.

His comforter is a deep navy, crinkled and a little crooked as though he carelessly flung it toward the headboard in an effort to make the bed this morning.

Two shirts are tossed over the back of his desk chair, and homework is scattered over the surface. Curious, I lean over.

“Accounting?” I ask, reading the title of the textbook.

“Yeah,” he agrees. I glance over at him, grinning to see him standing next to the door and watching me. He looks a little uncertain, and as I watch, I see his eyes flick downward to a stray sock sitting on the carpet. “I wasn’t expecting to come back here,” he clarifies, a little sheepishly.

“Are you going to school to be an accountant?” I ask, still a little floored by this. He shrugs.

“Yeah. Math is easy and there’s a lot of opportunities in that field. Good job security.”

“Huh. You don’t look like an accountant,” I tell him, picturing some stuffy middle-aged man with glasses and a sweater vest. He snorts and shakes his head in exasperation. I go back to snooping around his room.

“Did you want something to drink?” he asks from where he’s still hovering awkwardly by the doorway.

“Sure! Thank you.”

“Coke okay?”

I nod, but keep my attention on his dresser as I pull open the top drawer to peek inside. By the time Marcos comes back from the kitchen—two cans of Coke clutched in his hands—I’ve sufficiently snooped and am seated on the end of his bed. He holds one out to me.

“Thanks.”

“Bottled is better.” He sighs as he takes a seat next to me. Hitching a knee up and turning so I can look at him directly, I take a sip.

“So,” I start.

“I don’t think I can do it today,” he interrupts, cheeks darkening with a blush as he scowls resolutely at the wall in front of him.

“Do…what?”

“Have sex. I know it probably seemed like I was inviting you in for that, but I don’t think I can. Sorry.”

“Okay.” I’m not really sure what to say, and I feel a little bad even though I’m not entirely sure why.

“It’s not you,” he continues, still looking at the wall and not me. He’s running his palms back and forth over his boardshorts as though nervous. “I just…”

“Aren’t into it,” I fill in, and watch as his shoulders slump. “That’s okay. Do you…do you want me to leave?”

I take a gulp of my Coke, meaning to chug it if he’s wanting me out the door sooner rather than later. He turns his head to look at me, mouth turned downward in a frown and brows furrowed.

“No. I don’t want you to leave. I just don’t… I just need a break from all the—” He lifts a hand off his leg and waggles his fingers a little bit. Ah. No more touching, then.

“Okay,” I agree brightly, even though I can admit to myself I’m a little disappointed.

I spent all day staring at his bare chest and stomach; at the thin line of hair trailing down his belly.

I had more than a few ideas of how I’d have liked the rest of the evening to go, and touching was the least of them.

“Okay?” Marcos repeats cautiously, eyes bouncing back and forth between mine.

“Of course. I can stay, though?”

He fiddles with his Coke can, eyes trailing down from mine and making a very obvious path down my chest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You can stay.”