The American Roommate Experiment (Spanish Love Deception #2)(5)

As if he was testing the name on his tongue.

And God, the way he pronounced it, coated in that strong Spanish accent that rolled his Rs as if his whole body was pitching the sound and not just his tongue and vocal chords. It was so… different from every other way my name had been pronounced. Interesting. Distracting.

“Rosie,” he repeated after a couple of seconds. “Qué dulce,” he added in what I knew was his mother tongue, Spanish, but wasn’t sure what it meant. “I like it. It suits you.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, my whole body feeling increasingly warm. I shifted in my feet. “You have a good name, too, Lucas. It’s very… groovy.”

Groovy.

Oh God. Oh Lord.

Did I just say that his name is groovy? Like a… a… disco ball? Or a seventies themed party?

“Thanks, I guess.” Lucas let out a chuckle. “All right, as comfortable as I am on the floor, I’m tired of looking at your face upside down, Rosie.”

And before I could process his words, Lucas got up on his feet in a quick maneuver I wasn’t expecting. Distracted by the motion, the size of him, that alluring roll of the R that was still echoing in my head, and ultimately, the effect of having Lucas Martín—in the flesh—in front of me, I almost missed it when he winced and doubled over.

“Watch out!” I said as I lunged myself forward and grasped his forearms a couple of seconds too late. His head was down, and I couldn’t see his face. “Are you okay?”

“Estoy bien,” he breathed out, as if the words in his mother tongue had unconsciously slipped out. He shook his head. “I’m okay. All under control.”

Slowly, he glanced at me from under his lashes, meeting my gaze and making all the blood in my body return to my face. Just before returning his eyes down, as if something had caught his attention.

I mirrored the motion.

My hands. They were around his upper arms in a death grip. Around what I now realized were very firm upper arms. Lined with muscles. Hard ones. Flexed ones.

We looked up at the same time, my now wide eyes meeting his brown ones.

Amusement entered his expression. “Good catch, Rosie.”

I let go of him immediately, as if those three words had blasted me backward.

“Of course,” I rushed out, clasping my hands in front of me and averting my eyes from his face. They set up camp on a point below his chin. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, nothing to worry about.” He waved a hand in the air. “I should have probably stretched my legs a couple times instead of sleeping through most of the flight.”

“Right.” I nodded my head. “You just got off a transatlantic flight.” Because this was Lucas Martín and he had just crossed half the world to get here. From Spain, where he was from. And what had I done? Locked him out, called the cops, and then left him lying on the floor for a stupidly large amount of time.

“Oh no,” he said. “I flew in from Phoenix.”

Oh.

Oh?

“Was that a layover or were you already in—” I stopped myself, realizing it really wasn’t my business whether Lucas had been in the country or not. “Either way, here I am anyway, keeping you at the door. Please, come in.” I stepped to one side to let him into his cousin’s apartment feeling all kinds of… out of place.

Lucas lifted a heavy-looking backpack off the floor and walked in, allowing me a clear view of his backside. Now that his eyes weren’t on me, I finally let myself take him in. Take him really in, eyes traveling up and down the length of his body a couple of times.

And oh boy. He had long, lean-looking legs. Lucas was taller than I thought he would be based on what I’d seen of him during my online lurking. Even his shoulders were wider than I’d imagined. And the wrinkled gray sweatshirt he was wearing did nothing to hide them—or the muscles I’d noticed when I’d felt him up a few minutes ago. Or the way you could tell only by looking at his back that he was a professional athlete. That he surfed, competitively. And we were talking championships and tournaments and beautiful but scary-looking waves that reached incredible heights. Lucas had probably spent most of his life on the water and his body could endure—

The sound of his backpack falling snatched my attention. He had come to a stop next to the island that separated the kitchen and living areas in the cozy studio apartment.

“So, Rosie,” he said as he leaned down to pick up the stool I’d knocked to the floor earlier. He placed it upright next to its twin. “If you didn’t know I was coming…” He turned around, facing me with an easy grin. “And you wouldn’t have been here if you had known I was coming, then I guess you’re not my welcome committee, huh?” His voice was deep, his tone kind but playful. It made something in my belly take notice, something I pushed down immediately. “Pity, I was starting to think I should really thank my cousin.”

That something fluttered, making me stumble for an answer and immersing us in a strange silence.

Lucas’s smile fell.

“It was a joke,” he explained. “A really bad one, it seems. I’m sorry, I’m usually smoother than this.”

I blinked.

Think, Rosie. Think. Just say something. Anything.

“Ashton Kutcher,” was what my brain decided to go with. Lucas’s brows drew together. “The host of Punk’d, the prank show. The one you couldn’t remember.” I threw my hands in the air and lowered my tone. “You’ve been punked!”