Chapter 28: Bite by Bite, Inch by Inch [Flashback]

My hand shot to his chest, ready to push him away. “Milano, let me go before I..”

“Before you what?” he cut in, those storm-gray eyes locking on me like he’d just stumbled on a secret he couldn’t wait to unravel.

I exhaled hard, trying to lean back, but his arms only tightened, trapping me even more firmly on his lap. His posture was relaxed, far too relaxed.

“Seriously, Reagan. You think this is funny?” I hissed.

He tilted his head, only inches from my face. “Funny? No. Fun? Absolutely.”

I glared. “You’re interrupting my work.”

“And you’ve been interrupting my focus since our very first semester,” he shot back, like it was a fact he’d been carrying around in his pocket. “Figured it’s about time we’re even.”

I almost laughed, almost, but kept my expression stone-cold. “You don’t even like me.”

A slow smile curved his lips, the kind that looked like sin in the making. “Who says I don’t?”

I swallowed. Stupid. Such a stupid reaction. “You’re too arrogant to—”

“—admit I like watching you get mad? Yeah. Probably.” He gave the slightest shrug, but his gaze never left mine. “But I like seeing you laugh more. And worse… I like making you laugh.”

A frustrated groan slipped out of me. “You sound like some guy in a cheap romance novel.”

“If I were in your cheap romance novel, you know I’d be the main character,” he fired back, voice low and certain.

Damn it.

I laughed before I could stop myself. He’d won again.

Reagan’s eyebrow arched, his smile spreading wider. “There it is. Your laugh. You don’t even realize how gorgeous it is.”

I rolled my eyes, but my body was starting to notice the heat between us. The dangerous proximity. The fact that my position was a direct threat to my dignity.

I tried to stand again. “Let me go. Before Sebastian comes back and thinks we—”

“We what?”

“—are doing something we’re not doing.”

He feigned confusion. “Oh, so you’d be bothered if Sebastian thought we were doing something? You don’t want him knowing you’re sitting on my lap?”

“Reagan!” I snapped.

He only chuckled, but there was a shift in his gaze. Deeper now, more serious. “You should know one thing… if I want you in my lap, there isn’t a single person on this campus who can stop me.”

My heart was pounding far too hard.

And then, just like that, with one casual motion, he let me go. But not without making damn sure I felt the heat of his hand leaving my waist.

I stood stiffly, working to steady my breathing while he lounged back in his chair, watching me with smug satisfaction.

“Next time, I won’t let you off so easy.”

:::

My plate looked like a work of art. If a work of art consisted of a mountain of white rice, slices of roasted meat, black beans, and three empanadas taking up half the space.

Mama had flown back to Medellín yesterday, leaving her kids in New York with no stash of home-cooked meals.

I could cook. Obviously, I could. But cooking for myself? Way easier to drag my body to the cafeteria and order something with the same calorie count as an entire soccer team.

Naomi and Joy were across from me, deep in gossip about something related to last week’s student politics party. I caught none of the details. Not a single name they dropped stuck in my head. I just gave automatic nods whenever either of them looked my way.

“I swear, he only wore that suit to hide—” Naomi cut herself off, probably because my eyes had clearly glazed over.

“Gee, are you even listening?” Joy arched a brow.

“I’m in a committed relationship with my food right now. Please respect that.”

I scooped rice, meat, and a bit of beans into my mouth all at once. Delicious. Almost like Mama’s cooking. Well ... almost. I started cutting into my empanada with a flimsy plastic fork that was seconds away from snapping, then gave up and just bit into it.

Big mistake.

The scalding pastry and its meaty filling went straight for my throat, and somehow I inhaled air at the same time. A violent cough burst out of me, forcing me to hunch forward with a hand over my chest.

Then, out of nowhere, a glass of cold water appeared in front of me.

A large, warm, steady hand offered it without a word. I grabbed it, gulped it down, then then looked up and just my luck. Reagan Milano.

He stood there, towering, his leather jacket hanging loose over his shoulders. “If you’re planning on committing empanada suicide, at least do it somewhere else,” he said, his voice low.

I set my glass down, trying to salvage what was left of my dignity. “I wasn’t dying. I just… choked a little.”

“A little? You were red like a traffic light.” He tilted his head. “Lucky I walked by.”

“Lucky or unlucky,” I muttered, stabbing at my empanada.

Of course, he didn’t leave. He pulled out the empty chair beside me and sat down like he owned the place, one arm stretched lazily on the table, his shoulder brushing mine every time I moved.

Naomi shot me a what the hell look, while Joy suddenly found something fascinating on her phone.

Reagan slid my plate an inch away from me and eyed it. “You sure that’s a single serving?”

I gave him a flat look. “You sure you can stop micromanaging my life?”

His grin widened, full of the kind of confidence that made me want to, God, I didn’t even know throw my fork at his face or kiss it.

And then he leaned in closer. Too close. His shoulder pressed into mine like the entire cafeteria had only one empty seat… and it just happened to be right next to me.

I focused on cutting my last two empanadas, determined to ignore him. Naomi and Joy got up with the very believable excuse of “getting dessert.” Their eyes said something else entirely: he’s all yours.

The second they were gone, he pounced like a predator finally alone with its prey. Without the slightest shame, he nudged my fork aside and speared a piece of meat from my plate, popping it into his mouth like it was his birthright.

“I forgot,” he said around his bite, “you always eat like this when your mom’s just gotten back from Colombia.”

Of course he knew. Stalker.

I gave him a sideways glance. “If you say ‘like a pig,’ I will stab you with this plastic fork.”

He just shrugged. “I’d still be handsome.”

I sighed, refusing to rise to the bait. But every time I scooped rice or sliced into an empanada, his fork materialized out of nowhere, stealing half my portion.

“I’m serious. Get your own plate.”

“I like yours better.” He said it while looking at me, not the food.

I swallowed, resisting the urge to fling an empanada at his infuriatingly perfect face.

He rested his elbow on the table, tilting his head, his gaze locked on mine. “You know, Gee, you always look the most… real when you’re eating. No pretending. No ‘I have to look pretty in front of people.’ You’re just… you.”

I froze mid-bite, fork suspended. “That’s because I don’t consider you ‘people.’”

Reagan chuckled, the low sound rippling like warm waves. “Ouch. But I’m guessing that’s your way of saying you’re comfortable around me.”

I arched a brow. “If comfortable means constantly defending my food from you, then… maybe.”

He stole another piece of empanada, slower this time, like he wanted me to notice every movement.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not gonna take it all.” He chewed, then added, “Unless it’s you.”

I blinked at him, then looked down before he could catch the heat rising in my cheeks.

He knew. Damn it, he knew.