Page 6 of The Crowned Garza

“Ciao,” he prompts, and I blink, as though snapping out of a haze.

It takes me a second to realize—embarrassingly so—that I’ve just been standing here checking him out.

Annoyed with myself, I snap, “What?”

He opens the passenger door for me. “Get in.”

“You get in.”

There’s not an ounce of patience in his answering sigh. “You’re more mature than this,piccola principessa.”

“Tillie. It’s frickin’Tillie,” I grumble, climbing into the vehicle. “Stronzo.”

When he’s back behind the wheel and we’re on the move again, I say, “You’ve never met Lola before tonight. How do you know where she lives?”

Dry, deadpan, he replies, “If the sun doesn’t rise tomorrow, will it still be night?”

See what I mean? Prick.“So, I’m thinking—”

“Please don’t.”

“You’ve got a list, divided into two columns,” I continue, ignoring his jab. “On one side are those who get your ever-helpful, ever-dependable, yes-man persona. On the other side are those who get your jerkface, barely-tolerate-humans persona. And hey, nothing’s wrong with having two different personalities. Heck, I’ve lost count of how many I’ve got. What I wanna know is, why amIon the side that gets the asshole version of you?”

“Hmm,” he hums, though it’s more of a low, throaty, panter-like rumble.

And...it’shot.Wait, did I just find something about this odd, bland, enigma of a man hot?Look up, a meteorite’s about to slam into us any minute now.

“If I’m understanding you correctly, you think I’m a ‘jerkface’ because I don’t handle you with kid gloves or give you the high-maintenance princess treatment you’re used to?”

A scoff almost chokes me. “Have you met my family?No onehandles me with ‘kid gloves!’”

“Scrape the cataracts of narcissism off your eyes so you can see better,principessa.”

“Now I’m anarcissist?”

“A self-centered little windstorm who wreaks havoc wherever she goes because she knows her brothers will swoop in and save the day.”

That’s what he thinks of me? “Ah, I see what this is.Deflection. Flip it right around on me because you knowI knowyou’re full of shit.”

“Are younota high-maintenance princess who gets everything handed to her on a golden platter?”

“Are you not a two-faced phony who acts like a dick toward me because, well, I don’t have a dick?” I fire back.

“No, I’m not. See how easy that is? Now, you answer me.”

Argh,I could scream. He’s clearly good at mind games, and I’m not. I’m not a beat-around-the-bush person. I think something, I say it, and that’s it. Mental chess just isn’t my forte. One would think after growing up with four head-fuck brothers I would know a thing or two about head-fucking. But nope, I’m too lazy for that. I lost this fight before it even began.

“Stop talking to me,” I snipe.

His answering chuckle is humorless, curt. “Had you only listened when I told you not to think.”

Asshole.

The rest of the drive home is intensely silent. And long enough for me to decide I might possibly despise this man.

At home, when he unfolds his tall ass out of the car and proceeds to walk me to my door, I hiss at him, “Vaffanculo!”

To which he responds, “If you put more effort in your language studies, instead of clubs and parties, your pronunciations wouldn’t be so horrendous.”