And he sounds amazing.

“How can you tell?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Your voice is even sexier than usual.”

Sexy? I’ve been called cute and pretty and, once in a while, even beautiful. But not sexy.

I laugh. “I think you might need a hearing aid.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my hearing. You have the kind of voice that keeps guys up at night.”

I’m speechless.

“So … I wanted to ask you something.” He hesitates. “Were you serious last night about not wanting me to stay away from you?”

I wind a section of my long hair around my finger. “Were you?”

“I wouldn’t be calling at ten in the morning if I wasn’t.”

“I was serious.”

“Are you ever going to ask her?” Sofia whisper-shouts in the background.

Scratchy muffled sounds come through from Marco’s end, like he’s covering the speaker. I hear him say, “Close the door.” Marco returns to the line. “Sorry.”

“He wants you to come over tonight,” Sofia yells louder this time. “For dinner.” She squeals, and a door slams.

“I guess you heard all that,” he says sheepishly. “Any chance you want to come over later? I’ll make dinner.”

Dinner at his house … he’s asking me out. “You’re going to cook?”

“Yeah. I have to feed Sofia. I hope you don’t mind hanging out here.”

“That’s fine, especially if I’m getting dinner out of it,” I tease. “Let me check with my dad. What time?”

“Six? Whatever works. I just want to see you.”

“I’ll text you after I talk to him, but I’m sure it’s fine.”

Or I’ll make it fine.

After we hang up, I sit on my bed and stare at the phone, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened. Marco called me at ten in the morning, told me my voice was sexy, and invited me to his house for dinner. In any universe, that sounds like a date. Right?

* * *

I change three times before settling on dark jeans and a violet top that skims my small curves. I try on a pair of black flats, but my sneakers have become part of my look. I twist my long hair into a messy bun and I’m ready.

Except I’m not … because I’m going to Marco’s house. Where he sleeps.

Marco knows I don’t drive (unless, I’m in an illegal street race). He offered to pick me up, but I’m pretty sure Dad wouldn’t be okay with me dating anyone right now, and I don’t want to put a street racer on his radar. Dad thinks I’m going to Lex’s, so I make a quick exit when he holes up in his room on a call with Tyson. I cut through the back of the apartment complex to catch the bus and take it three stops to where Marco is waiting.

I get in the Fastback, and the scent of leather and citrus hits me. The whole car smells like I’m pressed against his chest.

“Hi.”

Marco stares at me, lips parted and eyes dark. “I’ve never seen your hair up before.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Everything about you is good.” He reaches out and touches the back of my neck. The contact sends a tiny shiver down my spine. I bite my lip as Marco’s eyes move to my mouth. “If you keep doing that, I’m won’t be able to stop myself from kissing you.”

I want him to kiss me … a lot.

As he drives, I steal glances at him. His gorgeous profile, the way the muscles in his arm flex when he shifts gears, and how the ink of his tattoos seems to move. I catch him looking at me, too. He touches my neck again at a stoplight.

“Do you miss your old school?” he asks as we pass Monroe.

“No.”

He grins. “I don’t miss you being there, either.”

Marco parks in front of an old three-story apartment building. The windows are barred, but the freshly painted white brick and the houseplants on the balconies make the building feel welcoming.

Marco walks around to my side of the car. When I get out, he’s standing so close that my body almost touches his. He takes my hand and leads me up the steps to the second floor.

He hesitates at the apartment door. “It’s nothing fancy.”

“I’m not into fancy. I prefer real.” His hand is over mine, and I brush my knuckles against his palm. “And I’m not judging.”

Marco squeezes my hand. “Sofia might act a little weird. I’ve never brought a girl home before, except Cruz.”

Is he serious? I want to ask, but I’m not sure how to do it without giving away my feelings.

“And she’s not really a girl,” he adds.

I nudge him in the ribs. “Cruz would kick your ass for saying that.”

He grins. “You really do know her.”

The minute Marco unlocks the door, Sofia comes running. She hugs me and pulls me inside. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

The apartment is warm and cozy—white walls with framed family photos and faded children’s artwork, a round oak kitchen table with four chairs. The cushions on the brown sofa in the living room are sunken in from use, and two bed pillows are stacked at one end.

White Christmas lights outline the inside of the door, and a drinking glass with pink and yellow flowers sits on the coffee table.

I touch the lights. “Your apartment is so pretty,” I tell Sofia, who stands expectantly in front of a hallway.

“Thanks.” She smiles, bouncing on her heels, then turns to her brother. “Marco, I think the chicken is done.”

“Thanks, Sopaipilla. Why don’t you show Frankie your room?”

Sofia beams and drags me by the hand down the hallway. We pass the photos on the wall. Most of them are ripped down one side, where someone was torn out of the picture—Marco’s dad, I’m guessing. Then each photo was returned to its frame, minus one family member.

“Here it is.” Sofia opens the door proudly. Her lavender walls are covered with posters of boy bands and concept cars. She has two photos on her nightstand—one of a beautiful woman who must be her mom, with the same tan skin and mass of black curls as Sofia, and the other of Marco standing outside the rec center with Sofia.

“I love it in here,” I tell her. “Did you decorate it yourself?”