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which is a good thing, ’cause there’s no way my brother would be able to afford the coins otherwise. They’re not having a traditional Mexican wedding since Brittany isn’t Mexicana , but they’ve put some Mexican traditions in the ceremony.
    Alex pats his pockets. “Shit. I left the arras in the room.”
    “I’ll go get ’em,” I say, then head back to the makeshift dressing room.
    “Hurry,” I hear Carlos and Alex call out behind me.
    I swing open the door to the dressing room and find I’m not alone. A girl about my age is in the room, looking out the window. Her white dress contrasts with her honey-colored skin, and just the sight of her makes me stop in my tracks. She’s smokin’ hot, with dark wavy hair running down her back and a face that reminds me of an angel. She’s obviously a guest at the wedding, but I’ve never met her before. I’d definitely remember her if I had.
    I flash her a smile. “ ¡Hola! Yo soy Luis . ¿Quieres charlar conmigo? ”
    She doesn’t say anything.
    I point to the door. “Umm … la boda va a empezar ,” I tell her, but it’s clear by the way she rolls her eyes that she doesn’t really care.
    “Dude, speak English,” she says. “This isn’t Mexico.”
    Whoa. Chica with an attitude in the house. “Sorry,” I say. “Thought you might be Mexican.”
    “I’m American ,” she says, then holds up a blinged-out cell phone and waves it in the air. “And I’m on the phone. It’s a private conversation. Do you mind?”
    The side of my mouth quirks up. She might claim she’s a full-blooded American, but I’d bet my left nut she’s got some Mexican blood running through her feisty veins.
    I pick up the arras and give her a smile. “Save a dance at the reception for me, mi chava .”
    She hangs up with whoever she was talking with and sneers at me. “Ugh, you’re one of those guys who flirt and smile to get with a girl, then they dump that poor girl on their ass when they least expect it.”
    “Oh, so you’ve heard about me,” I say, then wink at her. She starts to walk out of the room in a huff, but I reach out to stop her. “I was just kiddin’. Don’t take life too seriously, mi chava .”
    The angel gets in my face. She does it to intimidate me, but all it does is fire me up. “How dare you tell me not to take life too seriously! You don’t even know me.”
    I don’t usually mess around with girls with attitude. I’ve been around enough of ’em to know that muy creídas are more trouble than they’re worth. They’ve always intrigued me, though. I can’t help it. I think it’s in the Fuentes blood to mess around with girls who most definitely don’t want to get messed with.
    “Luis, you’re holding up the ceremony,” mi’amá calls loudly from the hall. She walks into the room, then raises an eyebrow at the sight of me standing close enough to the angel that if I bent forward the slightest bit I’d be kissing her. “What’s going on in here?” she demands, as if we were about to get it on and she got here just in time to break it up.
    “Yeah, what’s goin’ on?” I ask the girl, deliberately putting her on the spot.
    The girl holds up the cell. “I was in the middle of a call when he came in here and started to hit on me.”
    “That’s my son. And you are …” Mamá says, her eyes narrowed into slits. Oh, man. She’s in interrogation mode. You don’t want to meet mi’amá when she’s got her mind set on getting information out of you.
    “Nikki Cruz,” the girl says with pride. “My dad was Alex’s surgeon.”
    Not Mexican, my ass. I was right. This angel has more than a little red, white, and green blood running through her veins. Dr. Cruz was the one who took the bullet out of Alex’s shoulder at the hospital when he got shot years ago. The doctor has been in contact with Alex ever since, keeping tabs on him.
    Mamá nods, then scans Nikki Cruz—the surgeon’s daughter—from head to toe. “The wedding is about