Blah blah blah. Nothing interesting. And I’m just about to recheck my email when this passage leaps from the screen: Throughout the novel, heat is a symbol for sexual desire. Tita can control the heat inside her kitchen, but the fire inside of her own body is a force of both strength and destruction.

“Anna?” Someone knocks on my door, and it startles me out of my seat.

No. Not someone. St. Clair.

I’m wearing an old Mayfield Dairy T-shirt, complete with yellow-and-brown cow logo, and hot pink flannel pajama bottoms covered in giant strawberries. I am not even wearing a bra.

“Anna, I know you’re in there. I can see your light.”

“Hold on a sec!” I blurt. “I’ll be right there.” I grab my black hoodie and zip it up over the cow’s face before wrenching open the door. “Hisorryaboutthat. Come in.”

I open the door wide but he stands there for a moment, just staring at me. I can’t read the expression on his face. Then he breaks into a mischievous smile and brushes past me.

“Nice strawberries.”

“Shut up.”

“No, I mean it. Cute.”

And even though he doesn’t mean it like I-want-to-leave-my-girlfriend-and-start-dating-you cute, something flickers inside of me. The “force of strength and destruction” Tita de la Garza knew so well. St. Clair stands in the center of my room. He scratches his head, and his T-shirt lifts up on one side, exposing a slice of bare stomach.

Foomp! My inner fire ignites.

“It’s really . . . er . . . clean,” he says.

Fizz. Flames extinguished.

“Is it?” I know my room is tidy, but I haven’t even bought a proper window cleaner yet. Whoever cleaned my windows last had no idea how to use a bottle of Windex. The key is to only spray a little at a time. Most people spray too much and then it gets in the corners, which are hard to dry without leaving streaks or lint behind—