Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

I mean, seriously.

Vicente is handsome as hell, loaded, beyond charming, and exceptionally smooth. Half the stuff that was coming out of his mouth yesterday would have made any girl groan at the inherent over-the-topness.

But I didn’t groan. Because I know they aren’t just lines. He means them.

Doesn’t he?

I’m staring at myself in the bathroom mirror this morning, trying to figure out what he could possibly see in me. Don’t get me wrong—I might be a snowflake but I’m no Mary Sue. I know I’m attractive in my own way, it’s just that way doesn’t always attract the right men, at least not the men I want. I’m not tall, skinny, blonde and tanned with big lips, flat abs, and perky boobs. Okay, maybe my boobs are on the perky side, and so is my ass, but that’s from all my kickboxing and training. It’s big, all muscle, as are my thighs, and I do have strong arms and a strong stomach (covered underneath a layer of pinch-worthy flab, of course).

Body aside, I do have a good face. But it’s not sunny, sexy, and open. It’s the face that either makes men shrivel away from me or prompts them to say, “Smile, it’s not all bad.” I wish I had a clever comeback for every time I’ve heard that.

I honestly have never had a man so into me and so bold about it, and who also makes my heart do somersaults.

I know I shouldn’t question it. I should just accept it.

Easier said than done.

“Violet!” my mom yells from downstairs. “I’m going!”

I glance at my phone. My mother is driving me to school today on the way to the studio. My makeup is only half done, so I shove the rest into my makeup bag and pull my hair back into a low ponytail. I don’t know exactly what I’m expecting tonight other than dinner, but I did shave my legs and bikini line, so there is that. Just before I’m out the door, I grab a couple condoms from my drawer and put them in my purse.

Just in case.

I totally just jinxed myself, I know.

My mom is waiting impatiently by the door with her arms crossed. She looks more stressed than usual, her mouth set in a firm line. When she sees me, her expression softens.

“You look nice,” she says, eyeing me up and down.

“Thanks,” I tell her as casually as possible as I walk out the door and down the steps to the street. I’m wearing pointy studded black boots with kitten heels, probably the nicest boots I own, having haggled on eBay for them, black leggings, and a maroon long-sleeve dress with a low and lacy neckline. I left my beloved leather jacket behind since it’s probably too faded and banged up for a fancy restaurant, and I have a black satin bomber jacket on instead (a cheap find but it doesn’t look it).

“Going somewhere after class?” she asks, suspicious, wheels turning.

I shrug as I stop by the passenger side of our grey Jeep, waiting for the doors to unlock before getting inside. Dad has an old muscle car similar to Vicente’s, a black ’73 Challenger, but it’s in our tiny garage and he never takes it out.

“Why so secretive?” she asks as she starts the engine, not letting it go.

I give her a look that says, Are you kidding me? You should talk.

“What?” She wiggles her fingers around me. “You’ve got this mysterious aura about you. I’m just curious. It’s a good thing.”

“That you’re curious?”

“That you’ve got something going on.”

“I never said I have anything going on.”

I’m not even sure why I’m keeping Vicente from her. I mean, he did say he wanted to meet my parents, which is both crazy and promising all at once. I guess I’m afraid that since I just met him and we haven’t really been on a date, I don’t want to jinx anything. I feel like I’m already doing that with my shaved legs and matching bra and panty set.

My mom doesn’t say anything else. She looks a little crestfallen as she drives down the hill, enough that it makes me feel bad. It makes me shove my animosity over my grandfather aside for now and try and reach out.

“I met a guy,” I tell her, resisting the temptation to pick at the edges of my nail polish.

“Oh?” She sounds surprised. I can’t blame her. I think at one point she assumed Ginny and I were dating, and it probably made her happy.

“Yeah. As in literally just met him. So don’t worry, I haven’t been keeping you in the dark.”

“That explains why you’re looking hot,” she says, glancing at me with a small smile.

“Mom.”

“So when did you meet him? What does he do?”

“I met him on Monday. He’s an aspiring photographer and he was trying to get Anderson to accept him into the school.”

“Oh, really?” Now she sounds impressed. I usually dated musicians. This would be the first time for a photographer.

And you’re not dating, I remind myself.

“And did he get into the school?” she asks.

“I don’t think so. He was willing to pay his way in, but Anderson wasn’t having it. But I said I would teach him what I know.”

Now my mom is grinning at me. I wish she would do it more often since it makes her look a decade younger. “That’s my daughter. Hey, maybe you’ll find that teaching is your calling.”

“Maybe.”

“So what’s his name? How old is he?”

“His name is Vicente. I’m not sure how old he is, maybe mid-twenties?”

“Vicente,” she muses, then shrugs a shoulder. “Nice name. Very poetic.”

“He’s Mexican. Born in the U.S., so I guess he’s a dual citizen, but he spent most of his life in Mexico.”

Her posture stiffens at that. Her jawline twitches. “Do you know where in Mexico he was raised?”

“No idea. I know his dad is like a farmer. Or something to do with selling avocados.”

She nods at that, seeming to relax. I guess she’s back to acting odd again. “And he’s here for the school or…?”

“I don’t know. He said he came here to discover his roots, where he was born, and that it’s the perfect city for photography.”

“That’s very true. Well, I’m glad you’ve met a nice guy.” She gives me a sideways glance. “He is a nice guy, right?”