Me: Wet and naked with a plate full of dessert LOL.

Me: Molly baked brownies and I just ate 3.

Mateo: Those are my favorite. I especially love the brownies from the outer edge, when those pieces are just a little overcooked.

Me: If we don’t stop talking about food, I’m going to find myself back in the kitchen and eating whatever I can get my hands on. Your sisters didn’t leave me much pizza. Might still be hungry.

Mateo: Oh my god, speaking of my sisters—I am so sorry.

Me: Do NOT apologize for them! They love you and they were adorable. They remind me a lot of my family—and if one of my brothers were single, I’d probably want to set him up with Camila.

Mateo: **gags**

Mateo: First of all, that would never happen. Second of all, that would only happen over my dead body. No offense, I love your brother—but he would murder me for dating you, therefore I would have to murder him if he dated any of my sisters.

Over his dead body? Funny, that’s the same thing Buzz said about him.

Oh, the irony is not lost on me.

Mateo: Besides, Camila would eat him alive. He wouldn’t stand a chance, because he wouldn’t be able to stand her—she’s the worst.

Me: Those are the same things my brothers say about me.

Mateo: Yeah right—pretty sure your brother thinks you’re a paragon of virtue.

Valid point.

I’ve already established in my head that Buzz is going to shit himself when he finds out not only did I have sex, I had it with his teammate and got myself pregnant accidentally.

Me: Well, I’m confident Buzz could hold his own against Camila. She would be putty in his hands—if he were single. Should we try to find her a boyfriend? I’ve always fancied myself a matchmaker.

Mateo: Can we worry about ourselves before we start worrying about everyone else? You haven’t told me what night works for this feast I’m preparing for you via mi madre—just that you’re eating all the desserts I can get my hands on.

Mateo: My very BIG hands, IF you catch my drift.

Me: Ew.

I tell him ew even though I don’t think his hands are gross; I’m already well aware that they are huge. Felt them on my body, on my skin. Vaguely. I mean, I was drunk, so…

Me: How about Friday?

Nothing like ripping the Band-Aid off at the beginning of the weekend and ruining Saturday and Sunday for him.

Mateo: Not a word of this to anyone, you got it?

Me: What do you mean?

Mateo: I mean, if any—AND I MEAN ANY—of my sisters slide into your messages, you do not under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES tell them you’re going to be at my house on Friday. They WILL show up.

Me: Promise.

I need him all to myself for the news I have to break. Can’t afford to have the moment ruined.

It’s too important.

Probably the most important night of my life…

…maybe his, too.

His. Mine.

Ours.

We’re a team now, whether he likes it or not.

For life.

If this baby inside me wasn’t already making me queasy, that thought would do the trick.

I roll over on the bed, sliding under the covers I earlier deemed unnecessary, suddenly wanting to curl up in a ball and sulk, feeling quite sad and alone.

It’s a miracle I’m able to drift off and dream.

Mateo Espinoza is the most attractive man I have ever seen this close up—and I would know, because I’ve seen some pretty damn good-looking men in my life. When you have brothers who play professional sports and when you spend your life working in a male-dominated industry, you’re bound to see enough perfect male specimens to curl your toes.

I totally check him out when he doesn’t think I’m watching; each time he turns his head to glance toward the dance floor, I study the side of his neck. His thick neck, the tendons straining with every movement.

Clean shaven, I bet he smells divine.

Like aftershave lotion and shower and man.

I measure the width of his shoulders with my eyes; they’re broad perfection.

His dark hair is jet black and looks freshly shorn, if my instincts are correct—it’s not short, but it’s not shaggy. It’s the perfect length for a set of hands to run through.

My hands, to be exact.

I keep them busy to prevent myself from touching him, but it’s hard and growing increasingly more difficult.

Mateo Espinoza is funny. Cute. Smart.

Polite and behaving like the perfect gentleman.

Why did I assume he’d act like more of a douche? He’s aligned the features of his face into a polite, respectful mask, giving nothing away. If he’s thinking dirty thoughts about me—the same way I am about him—I would have no way of knowing it.

Mateo’s gaze hasn’t strayed down to my cleavage once.

Not one single time—not that I’ve seen.

Maybe he was gawking at my boobs when I wasn’t looking?

That gives me hope.