Chapter 41: Still Gorgeous, Though [still flashback]

I woke up with a strange feeling. Not a nightmare. But not an ordinary morning either. It felt… comfortable. Too comfortable, like I’d woken up inside a movie scene blessed with perfect natural lighting and the distracting scent of masculine wood lingering in the air.

My pillow was warm. But not because of the stuffing. Because of a chest.

Reagan’s chest.

My eyes blinked open, adjusting to the light slipping through curtains that barely did their job. And when my gaze shifted forward… oh hell.

A strangled sound escaped me as I caught sight of the mirror on the wardrobe. Who was that? Who was that girl with blond hair tangled like a lioness just waking from hibernation, wearing an old torn nightgown that looked like it belonged in a thrift store reject pile? Oh God. That was Mama’s nightgown. The one with a pattern straight off a kid’s birthday party tablecloth.

And the worst part? I wore it because only my mother’s discarded nightgowns could knock me out into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I studied my swollen sleep face, half-shut eyes, and hair like the love child of a tornado and 80s hairspray. But none of that was the real shock.

The blond hair. I had completely forgotten.

A little laugh bubbled out of me, soft, amused, almost absurd. One night, one blonde moment, and now I looked like a telenovela character about to scream Maldita sea! and throw a vase across the room.

“Funny,” a raspy voice behind me murmured.

I didn’t get the chance to turn around, not with that sun-browned arm still looped snugly around my waist.

His chin dropped lazily onto my shoulder. His body was warm against mine, only in boxers, breath still heavy from sleep. His hair was a mess. His bare chest pressed firm against my back. No, this wasn’t a dream. This was real. Sinful, but so dangerously comfortable I couldn’t deny it.

“You’re laughing because you’re falling in love with me, no?” he whispered against my neck, his voice toxic magic that made my heart forget how to beat for a second.

I sighed. “I’m laughing because my reflection looks like the runaway daughter of the Escobar family.”

He chuckled low. “Still gorgeous though.”

“Liar.”

“Gretta,” he drawled, lazy but commanding, my name suddenly heavier. “You could wear a rice sack and I’d still forget how to breathe.”

I rolled my eyes even if he couldn’t see it. “That’s because you’ve got breathing problems, not because of me.”

He only laughed softly and pulled me tighter, until there was no space left between us. My back flush against his chest, his legs tangled lightly with mine. And somehow… I let him. Because this morning was too peaceful to fight.

Outside, faint horns and the wind of the city filtered through. But in here… it was just us. A half-fallen blanket, his scent that was too masculine for his age, and our breathing falling into rhythm like two people who should never fit but always managed to find each other anyway.

Reagan didn’t speak again. He only brushed his hand lazily up my arm before threading his fingers through my hair, twisting one blond strand around his finger.

“I’m still not sure about this color,” he muttered.

“Say one more word and I’ll pour coffee on your face,” I whispered.

He laughed. I kept staring at the mirror. At the girl with new hair, a hideous nightgown, and the hottest guy on campus half-naked, holding her like she was the only thing he needed in the world.

I had no idea what any of it meant.

:::

You know what’s unfair in this world?

Men like Reagan Milano, walking out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel hanging dangerously low on his hips, hair dripping wet, chest bare like he belonged on the cover of a sin catalog. And me, standing in the kitchen in Mama’s torn Colombian nightgown, trying not to melt like butter in a frying pan.

“I thought you’d put on clothes, not parade your abs,” I muttered, flipping an arepa in the skillet.

“I thought you’d greet me with a hug, not a judgmental glare,” he answered, voice slow, careless.

Reagan strolled closer without shame. And of course he didn’t feel guilty. The world never punished men like him. He was just… too hot for prison.

He inhaled the smell of my cooking. Of course he did. I was making a breakfast worthy of sparking a Colombian revolution in Boston: cheese arepas, chorizo, fried eggs, and avocado, all piled on my one unchipped blue ceramic plate. Steam rising.

“Don’t touch it,” I warned before he could even move.

Too late.

His long fingers pinched off a piece of hot arepa and popped it into his mouth.

“Good,” he said, licking melted cheese from his fingertip.

I smacked his hand with the wooden spatula. He just laughed, unfazed.

And just as I was about to curse him out in Spanish, a knock sounded at the door.

I frowned. “Did you order food again?”

Reagan sauntered toward the door, towel still hanging indecently low. I almost told him not to open it, but too late.

A woman stood there, dressed in a crisp gray uniform, her face blank with professional detachment. In her hand was a sleek black garment bag I instantly recognized as part of Reagan’s wardrobe.

“Mr. Milano,” she greeted politely. “Your clothes.”

I clicked my tongue. “Of course you have someone delivering outfits to my flat. What’s next? A personal butler to rub oil on your feet?”

Reagan closed the door after a curt nod to the woman. “I could arrange that, if you’d like.”