B
itter coffee burned Rosalia’s tongue. The steaming black brew from her
abuelita’s
corner store wasn’t nearly as good as the stuff from the trendy café across the street, but she drank it as a matter of principle. The same principle, in fact, that demanded she scurry up to the third floor of rickety scaffolding at seven-thirty on a cold and foggy Thursday morning.
The thought of spending the day at the top of the scaffolding made her queasy, but she’d only rented the hulking atrocity for a week. So even if heights turned her into a trembling chihuahua, she had to get her skinny ass up there and finish the mural. It was her act of protest and her tribute to
abuelita
, and it already looked pretty damn good.
The three-story-high painting splashed turquoise, gold and magenta on the side of the building;
La Virgen’s
white backdrop stood in bright contrast to the sooty wall. Rosalia had wanted to script giant letters advertising her family’s
bodega
. But the landlord had told
abuelita
no. Rosalia’s grandmother
was sick and wasn’t getting better. Once she died, the landlord would turn the storefront into a gourmet donut shop, or something equally stupid, catering to the new, wealthier residents of the neighborhood. Meanwhile, Rosalia would lose the rent-controlled apartment that went with the storefront.
Her hands balled at the thought of the landlord and his arrogant nephew who’d moved in upstairs. No doubt they thought the mural added a bit of local color and deterred graffiti. But in Rosalia’s heart,
La Virgen
marked the building as part of the real Mission District.
She took her third sip of coffee and dumped the cup into a green sidewalk trash can. Hefting her knapsack, she readied herself to face her fear. Paint, brushes and turpentine weighed heavily on her shoulders. The rungs of the scaffolding were spaced so far apart she could barely keep her balance as she hauled herself up. At the top, she dragged her legs onto the planks and pushed onto her knees. The wind blew harder, threatening to topple her. Teetering precariously, she leaned into the gust. Her pulse swirled out of control, and the sidewalk spun beneath her.
She swung her pack down and sat. Squeezing her eyes closed, she leaned against the wall, her head resting against a window. A few deep breaths calmed her panic enough for her to notice the window leaked the sound of rhythmic keening—the nerve-grating sound of two beautiful jerks fucking—and enjoying it too.
It took no effort for Rosalia to imagine her handsome new neighbor and his girlfriend, limbs entangled, flawless fair skin and golden heads, big muscles and bigger breasts. It took even less effort for her own lean, brown body to slide into the image in place of the buxom blonde, her legs encircling his perfectly sculpted ass, his broad shoulders bunching and straining over
her. Desire poured into her veins, erasing her panic and making her pant.
Hijo de puta.
If they woke up
abuelita
with that caterwauling, she would raise hell and then complain to the landlord. Not that it would matter.
She shook her head, but the image of his gorgeous body gripped her. From the window of the apartment, she’d watched him come and go like he owned not only the building, but the world. His blond head towered above everyone else on the street. He didn’t even have a job—came and went whenever—sometimes home all day, sometimes gone all night. Just another entitled pig stealing her neighborhood, one
bodega
at a time.
The resentment sobered her, and the last threads of her acrophobia unraveled, freeing her to work. She stood on stable-enough legs and pivoted, relieved to find the window heavily curtained. She didn’t have to see what that fair skin over bulky muscle looked like under his fashionably ratty clothes. And, away from the glass, she couldn’t hear them either.
She’d saved this high section of the painting for last—
La Virgen’s
crown held aloft by tiny brown-skinned cherubs. With new purpose, she found a pencil and darkened the sketch she’d already made on the siding, adding detail to her little cherubs. Soon they would be chubby brown babies crowning
La Virgen
, their queen. But first, Rosalia layered bright-yellow paint onto the rays of light surrounding the holy mother.
When she finished tinting the array, she cleaned her brush, swooshing it around in the small jar of turpentine. A bit of the cloudy liquid sloshed out, and she peered over the side of the platform to see if it had splashed anyone. It hadn’t, but a sleek, towheaded ponytail emerged from the door.
Without deliberating, Rosalia dropped the jar off the scaffolding.
Well, perhaps she thought a bit—she did aim a good ten inches behind the blonde bitch. Which meant when Mr. Muscles appeared at the bottom step, filling out a navy-blue uniform like the sex-god he’d sounded like, the jar shattered at his feet.
He smelled paint thinner before he realized what had happened. The mural painter had dropped a jar from the scaffolding.
“What the hell?” shrieked Meegan.
He braced himself for her outrage. She hated coming to his neighborhood and never hesitated saying so.
She pointed at the painter. “Get down here this instant. I want an apology. And you barely missed my purse with that nasty stuff.”
He followed the line of her finger to see the silhouette of a boy in a baseball cap and overalls.
“I said, get down here. Oh, for Christ’s sake. Do you even speak English?”
The sole of his boot crunched in glass as he reached for Meegan’s arm. “Are you hurt?”
“That’s not the point. She’d have killed me, if that thing had hit my head. She probably did it on purpose.” Meegan rummaged in her purse, shouting. “I’m going to call the police if you don’t come down here.”
He squinted up at the boy, a dark shape in contrast to the foggy white glare behind him. Had Meegan said
she
?
“Fuck you,” said the painter, in an unexpectedly high voice. Yep, she.
Meegan stomped her foot. “Get down here.”
“
Yo no recibo órdenes de gringas perra con palos por el culo
.”
He stifled a laugh. She’d pegged the bitchy and uptight Meegan, for sure. The laugh died in his throat. Why was he
sleeping with her if that’s what he thought? Little miss painter had shown him the light.
“What did she say?” Meegan asked.
He shielded his eyes and saw the mysterious woman had removed her cap. Sunlight fell on waves of raven black hair and a full-lipped, sensuous mouth, pulled into a sneer. She was easily twenty-five, but petite.
“She said it’s a long way down, and she sees no need to descend.”
The painter snorted. “That’s not—wait. You speak Spanish?”
“
Sí.
” And he would use it to ask what had happened. “¿
Sabía usted lanza el frasco en ella?”
“Fue un accidente.”
“An accident. You heard her, Meegan. Let’s go.”
“Not until she apologizes.”
The painter let out a stream of curses in Spanish so fast and loud it made his head spin. He wouldn’t fool Meegan about those, so he grabbed her, dragging her toward the train station.
The shouts cut off abruptly. “Hey. Why are you wearing that?”
He glanced over his shoulder, the light behind her illuminating the swell of small breasts and gently curving hips. They distracted him from her question, but he refocused. “What?”
“That uniform. Why are you wearing that?”
He shrugged. “For work.”
“You work?”
From her tone, he may as well have said he was a Martian. “Uh, yeah. Paramedic at General,” he called out, dragging Meegan behind him.
In the station, he shoved her onto the train with more force than he preferred to use with a lady. His sense of honor recoiled,
even though she’d proven herself to be anything but. A clock over the turnstiles warned he was running late. His work boots and heavy pants weren’t ideal for a run, but he jogged the eight blocks to the sprawling redbrick complex of San Francisco General Hospital. With a few minutes to spare, he powered up his phone and discovered five texts from Meegan, the last of which said,
Call back now or we r thru
.
Nice of her to make it easy on him; one of the nicer things she’d ever done.
A routine day of emergency calls followed—a heart attack, an overdose, a car accident, and in between, plenty of waiting. Sipping hospital coffee and burning time, he recalled the surprisingly beautiful mural painter’s sneer. A tickling suspicion formed—it hadn’t been an accident at all. He should be mad, but instead he admired the feisty little thing, and her judgment about Meegan had proven better than his own. If the painter was back in the morning, maybe he could get her number.
After his shift, he crossed the intersection toward his building. Lit by the bluish light of a streetlamp, the mural seemed nearly finished, though the scaffolding obscured it. He wanted to see it uncovered, and to see its painter even more. Hopefully tomorrow.
He closed the gate behind him, climbing the unlit stairs to the landing. A door opened. Once again in silhouette, she appeared in its frame. She closed the door behind her. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, her features came into focus. Glittering almond-shaped eyes seemed made for laughter, but they were narrowed. Under her slightly upturned nose, those full lips were pursed. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders like shiny silk.
“You live with Mrs. Lopez?”
She didn’t reply.
“The mural looks great.”
She tried to skirt around him, but he wasn’t ready for her to go. He blocked her.
“Let me past.”
“No.” Her eyes widened, and he cursed. What the hell was he thinking?
A big guy alone with a beautiful woman in a dark stairwell. He retreated.
Her chest rose with a deep breath, and she seemed more at ease. Instead of moving past him, she crossed her arms. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
The scathing tone should have chilled him, but whatever hid behind the question made his body come alive, tightening his chest and stirring his cock. “Not my girlfriend anymore.”
A husky laugh filled the stairwell. “Why?”
“I took your side.”
“Did you?” She raked her fingers over her forehead and through her gorgeous hair.
“You know I did, and I suspect I was wrong. But I’m not sorry. Were you trying to hit her?”
“I was trying to hit you.”
Her lie made him laugh. “What’s your name?”
“Why do you care?”
“We’re neighbors, and I owe you a thank-you for saving me from Meegan. Can I buy you a drink?”
Her throaty laugh rang out again. “We don’t go to the same kind of bars. Go find another blondie.”
“What’s your problem?” He reached for her wrist.
She gasped, and a warning alarm went off in his head—don’t push her. But she let him pull her close, her eyes huge and her breathing quick. He bent his head to her ear and spoke with a lungful of hot air against her neck. “Tell me your name.”
“Rosalia.” She leaned in, bringing their bodies into the barest
contact. Some part of her liked him, behind all that resistance, and he was damn glad.
“I’m Justin.” His chest burned where her breasts, small and firm, brushed against him. He wanted to reach under her blouse. “And if you won’t let me buy you a drink, I’ll have to kiss you instead—to show my thanks.”
Not a word. No yes, or no. She simply tilted her face up and parted her lips. He intended to be gentle and slow, but her open mouth proved too tempting. His tongue delved inside, seeking out hers. He stroked the inside of her mouth, where the taste of something sweet lingered. She whimpered, and all he could think of was taking her to his bed. Except Meegan had been there last night, and the sheets needed changing.
He must have hesitated, because Rosalia pulled away.
“You’re welcome.” She slipped under his arm and down the step before he could stop her.
He followed, but the street was empty. At the corner, he looked in both directions. She’d vanished. Some primal instinct told him to chase. But no, she needed him to prove something to her. He would figure out what it was, prove it, and she would stop resisting. He went back upstairs to change his sheets.
Rosalia was not a burrito, or, for that matter, any other kind of local flavor for Mr. Muscles to sample at his convenience, which was why she walked away from that nearly all-consuming kiss. But at three A.M. she lay awake, tangled in her sheets, imagining him unwrapping and devouring her. That hot mouth, that big, forceful tongue—the memory kept her wanting and aching.
When she got out of bed, she drank a full cup of
abuelita’s
toxic coffee. Then she steeled herself to climb right up the ladder and finish the cherubs. On the topmost platform, she lined up
her jars of paint. The scaffolding swayed in the wind, and her hands shook even though she never looked down.
She dipped her brush into the chocolate-brown tint.
He wasn’t a trust-fund jerk. He was a paramedic. He took her side against his girlfriend—ex—even though Rosalia had been in the wrong. And he was big and strong and on the other side of the window, in a room with a solid floor. Surely, with him pressed on top of her, the world would stop spinning.
Damn it. Her stomach churned around caffeinated acid, and her sleep-deprived brain took for granted that he wanted her. Last night it had sure seemed like—
The scaffolding creaked, its joints straining against the gales of another foggy morning. She couldn’t breathe. The panic came from nowhere—or from fatigue and caffeine and being more than thirty feet over the sidewalk, and maybe from the realization she kind of liked Mr. Muscles. She trembled; the scaffolding quaked.
Dios mio
, it was going to fall. She scrambled to the ladder, knocking a jar of paint against the wall of the building. She froze with her feet dangling over the edge and her fingernails digging into the old planks. Her heart attempted to explode. She hiccuped, sobbed. She was going to die. Splat. Right on the sidewalk outside his window.