Miguel leaned back against the hood of his low-rider, the sun reflecting off the metallic paint as he adjusted the collar of his flannel. He still didn’t know why he’d agreed to this. Sure, he and Angel De Santos had hit it off—bonding over their love for corridos, low-riders, and just about anything that roared with horsepower. But Angel’s world was a far cry from the one Miguel lived in. Beverly Hills wasn’t his scene, and neither were the bougie cafés and overpriced boutiques that dotted every corner. But today, he was doing Angel a favor, and favors for friends were something Miguel never backed down from.
The air around him buzzed with the chatter of girls spilling out of the café in front of him. Laughter, high-pitched and obnoxious, filled the air. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. If they only knew how ridiculous they looked, posing for photos in front of their perfectly plated, Instagram-worthy desserts. He glanced over the small crowd, searching for the reason he was here—Angel’s sister.
There she was, draped in pink like always, standing out against the sea of other girls like some kind of walking Barbie ad. He couldn’t figure out why Angel doted on her so much. Sure, she was his sister, but every time Miguel had seen her, she seemed to float around, completely disconnected from the real world. She was all airheaded giggles and flashy clothes, a stark contrast to Miguel’s grounded life.
Despite everything, Miguel took his promises seriously, and today, that promise meant playing chauffeur. So, with a low groan of resignation, he shoved his hands into his pockets and strode across the street toward the café.
The glass door swung open as he stepped inside, his presence immediately commanding attention. The usual hum of conversation quieted for a beat as the towering figure in his dark flannel.
"Yo, you ready?"