by Tia Louise
Stepping back, I slide my hand over the bulge in my slacks. “I’m having second thoughts about cooking.” I’d rather be fucking.
She hops off the bar, going to the cabinet and pulling down two plates. “But I can’t wait to taste your signature dish!”
Grabbing it with oven mitts, I place the glass dish on the top of the stove. It’s bubbling and golden, and it actually does smell good. She hands me a knife and spatula, and I cut out a large square, placing it between the two of us.
Angel freshens her wine and pours me a glass, and I lean on the bar where she’s sitting, holding a forkful of golden pasta in the air as she blows on it. Her pink lips pucker, and I do my best to tamp down my dirty thoughts.
“Ready?” She grins, holding it carefully towards my mouth.
“I made this for you.”
“But I helped make it better.”
I take a small bite, leaving the rest on the fork. Immediately my mouth is filled with cheesy goodness with a nice kick of spicy heat in the background. She puts the rest in her mouth, and covers it with her hand, widening her eyes and nodding.
“Damn, that’s good.” I reach for my own fork, cutting off another bite as she finishes hers.
“We made it better together.” A note of triumph is in her voice, and I like it.
It’s a good omen. It’s like us—I’m the raw ingredients, and she’s the color, the music and the flavor. Her phone buzzes, and she jumps off the stool fast.
“Oh, I lost track of time.” Running to the living room, she slings her purse onto her shoulder before stepping back to give me a kiss.
“Wait a minute.” I catch her arms, stopping her progress. “Where are you going, Cinderella?”
“That’s my car. I’ve got to get back before… anybody notices.”
“I thought you had an hour—”
“Including drive time.” She’s practically running out the door and pressing the button on the elevator. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?”
It opens quickly, and we step inside. She presses the button for the lobby while I stand beside her, tracing my fingers along hers as we descend. I consider pushing her against the wall and devouring her. She’s watching the numbers, her lips pressed together. They’re swollen and pink from my kisses and her hair is messy from my fingers in it. She looks amazing.
“I’ve decided to come early tomorrow.”
That catches her attention, and she rises on her tiptoes to kiss me as the door dings open. “Five thirty. No earlier.”
My hands are on her waist and I pull her back for a better kiss, a better taste of her mouth, like it’s a decadent dessert. “Five twenty-nine.”
With a touch of her hand, she skips out the glass doors to the waiting Lyft. I lean against the window watching as she speeds away.
Tomorrow everything changes.
6
Angel
Beto slides a cast iron skillet with tomatoes, chopped onions, chilis, and cilantro over the fire, and as usual, he’s wearing a white tank and dark jeans. His feet are bare on the beige stone floor, and my thoughts slip to Deacon last night. Both of them are strong and stubborn, but my sexy man treats me with respect.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot.” My brother stands at a stainless-steel Viking range with a spatula in his hand, the morning sun streaming through an open window. “Grab some coffee, and we’ll talk over breakfast.”
He still isn’t asking.
He’s still giving me orders like he’s some drill sergeant, and I involuntarily enlisted in his army. Still, the delicious aroma makes my stomach growl. I decide to accept his olive branch, despite how it’s offered. He is my oldest and only sibling after all. I guess he’s used to bossing people around.
“Need any help?” I step over to the coffee machine, putting a mug on the tray and dropping a pod in the slot before hitting go.
He grins, nodding toward the counter. “You could hand me two tortillas.”
A plastic bag of flour tortillas sits beside a toaster oven, and I take out two while he slides the red sauce to the side of his large skillet and cracks two eggs, frying them quickly.
I’m on guard, but I welcome a chance to sit down and chat with King Triton. Maybe it’ll shed some light on what he’s doing here.
Coffee made, I wait as he assembles two tortillas on plates followed by the eggs and the tomato sauce.
“One for you.” He hands me a plate sprinkling cilantro over it before letting go. “And one for me. Let’s eat.”
I follow him to the small table situated before a set of open bay windows. Birds chirp, and we have a beautiful view across his massive back yard, leading down to the lake.
The small cottage is toward the back. A gardenia bush is planted at the southern corner, and when I went yesterday to set up my art supplies, it smelled familiar, like my mother’s spirit was there. I wanted to spend the afternoon painting, but I had to finish Lo’s dress.
Beto places a mug of coffee on the table beside his dish before sitting. His knees are spread wide, and he attacks his food like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. I watch him a moment before taking a bite of my breakfast. It’s really delicious.
“So I’m not a seamstress or a babysitter or a waitress, but you’re a cook?” I can’t resist after the way he acted yesterday.
He lifts his chin after shoveling a large bite of eggs into his mouth. “It’s possible I spoke too fast. You’re right. Family is different.”
My eyebrows almost meet my hairline. Did he just say I was right? This is not how I expected the day to begin.
Last night I went to bed with my insides all twisted. Between Deacon’s enthusiasm about meeting my family and the unpredictability of my brother, I barely slept a wink. I planned to at least open the subject of my boyfriend with him before tonight, before Lo’s party.
Hunger deserts me, and I push my eggs around on my plate. No time like the present.
“After Mamá died, she wanted me to come here to be with you. She wanted us to be a family.”
Beto shoves the remainder of his eggs onto his fork. He exhales a noise before putting it all in his mouth, and I continue.
“But you left less than a month after I arrived.” I’m holding my mug of coffee, watching him. “We never got to know each other.”
Leaning back in his chair, he glances out the window. The muscle in his jaw moves as he finishes his breakfast. Then he clears his throat and cuts those black eyes at me. “You were just a kid when you came here. I had to work and establish myself. Valeria was in a better position to take care of you than I was.”
“I was fifteen…” I hold my voice steady. I’m not trying to fight or shame him. I’m simply stating the facts. “You left, and I haven’t seen you in years.”
“I’ve been working.”
“Doing what?”
He shrugs, his gaze drifting to the window again. “Our uncle has many connections in Mexico. I helped him export produce, coffee, cocoa, furniture…”
“Exports.” I nod, trying not to prejudge my brother. “You made enough money to buy this house on exports? And now you don’t have to work?”
“Who says I don’t have to work?” He laughs. “Just because I don’t keep regular hours doesn’t mean I don’t work. And yes, the level of trade our family does provides a nice living. Our uncle works in high-end goods, not that cheap shit you see on the streets.”
My eyes narrow, and I don’t know what to make of this. Valeria says he’s an honest man, but how much does she even know?
“You never visited us when Mamá was alive. Why did you go there after she died?”
“Mamá left me with our father. She made her decision.” He stands, taking our plates from the table. “She didn’t want me there.”
I don’t miss the injury in his voice. I study his back as he carries our dishes to the sink, broad shoulders, muscled arms. My brother is strong, but I just got a big peek under his armor at the boy who was wounded by her decision. The idea softens me towa
rds him.
“She didn’t mean to hurt you, Beto.” Standing, I carry my mug to where he’s clearing off the cooking utensils. “She talked about you all the time.”
He hesitates, and our eyes meet. This time his black gaze is fathomless. My brother and I have spent so little time with each other, but we still share a familial bond. I might not know exactly what he’s thinking, but I recognize sadness, a sense of loss.
I carefully place my hand on his forearm. “She loved you.”
“Our mother loved her freedom and her art—”
“And her family and her son.”
He studies my face a moment then his eyes narrow. He leans a hip against the counter and crosses his arms. “You’ve grown up a lot while I was in Mexico. You are very beautiful, little sister.”
This change of topic confuses me. “Thank you?”
“I’ll introduce you to my friend Mateo.”
Of all the… “No, thank you.”
“Mateo is a good man.” His eyes flicker to me again. “It’s time.”
“Time for what?” If he says for me to get married, I swear to baby Jesus.
“A good man will keep you out of trouble.”
Trouble. The code word for getting pregnant. “What makes you think I don’t already know a good man?”
His cheeks split with his grin. “Valeria says you never date.”
“Valeria doesn’t know everything about me.”
Pushing off the counter, he walks back to the table to retrieve his coffee mug. “Why do you act like a servant to them? You’re a grown woman.”
“I owe Valeria a lot. She took care of me, she paid for everything. Why, if it weren’t for Uncle Antonio—”
“You owe them nothing. I paid him back for your classes.”
Heat flashes in my cheeks. “So I owe you now?” The last thing I want is to be indebted to Beto.
“I told you, I’m taking care of you now.” Finishing his coffee, he puts the mug in the sink. “You grew up in a pretty fairytale, Carmelita, a bubble. You know nothing of your family. You don’t know what our life was here.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You have to trust me to know what’s best for you.”
“How can you know what’s best for me? You know nothing about my life since you’ve been gone.” My voice rises, and I hate that I sound small next to him. “You can’t come back here and start ordering me around.”
“One day when we are old, you can tell me what to do.” He touches my chin and winks. “For now, I tell you.”
I’m hot all over and ready to fight this out, but he’s headed for the door. “Valeria wants me at the church with her and the girls.” He pauses, looking back. “Someone needs to be here to supervise the workers, the food, decorations… Would you be willing to do it?”
“Of course.”
He nods, and with that, he leaves me standing in the kitchen, with all of my arguments still in my mouth… I wasn’t finished! And I never told him about Deacon.
All my arguments and anger are lost once the party crew arrives. I spend the afternoon flying, directing cater-waiters, movers, florists, bakers… Beto’s shiny new mansion really is far superior to the Knights of Columbus community center for Lo’s party. Japanese magnolias and Bradford pear trees line the path down to the pristine lake, and the weather is pleasant, despite being almost June in Texas.
In addition to our small family, all of Lola’s friends will be here, along with their families. I leave space between the tables for the traditional dances and rituals. It’s odd to think at fifteen our culture says Lo is no longer a girl. She’s only a sophomore in high school. Still, it’s a beautiful tradition I’m only a little sad I missed out on celebrating.
Shaking that memory away, I return to directing the florist on where to put Lo’s oversized bouquet, and how to arrange all the smaller bunches on each table.
An enormous five-tiered birthday cake, decorated in burgundy roses to match Lo’s dress is in the center of a large table in the back, and a specialty boutique organized the pillow and the last doll. My cousin already has her tiara.
My phone is blowing up with texts from Deacon, starting with his usual, million-year-old, lame-assed jokes, which he completely used to steal my heart the first day we met. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a funny, sexy guy.
A skeleton walks into a bar, he sends me around four.
I’m in the middle of arranging candles under chafing dishes on the long tables lining the dining room walls, but I can’t resist. I type back quickly, Orders a beer and a mop.
I want to see you now.
My tummy squeezes when I picture the wicked light in his eyes, his crooked grin, his full lips. Then I look down at my cutoffs and dirty tee, my wild hair piled on my head in a messy bun.
You really don’t want to see me. I’m a hot mess.
You’re always hot. I’m coming early.
FIVE THIRTY!!! I reply, shouty caps and exclamation points intentional.
So grumpy for a party day.
Can’t talk, setting up.
It’s the last text we exchange before my cousin twirls in an hour later just ahead of her family. She looks like a lady in her ball gown, which fits her perfectly. I’m so proud of her. My eyes heat, and I dab a tear from the corner of my eye. I arrived when Lo was only seven, and now she’s a young woman in a beautiful dress I made for her.
“It’s a dream come true!” Lo clasps her gloved hands beneath her chin. “I imagined how my party would be, but it’s so much more. Thank you, Uncle Beto!”
Her eyes are shining, and even if she’s being a little extra, I go to her, pulling her into a hug. Every girl deserves to feel special at least once in her life.
Her friends file in behind her, giggling like the teenage girls they are and eating the party mix and nuts, doing their best to keep their white gloves clean. They’re all wearing matching champagne-colored silk dresses with their hair styled in matching updos.
“Are there any special boys in your chambelanes?” I give Lo an elbow to the ribs.
One part of her special day is an entourage of fifteen-year-old boys dressed in suits who will lead her and her court through traditional dances.
“No!” Her eyes widen, and she answers a little too fast.
My eyebrow arches in suspicion, and Sofia taps me on the waist, holding up her arms. I lean down to hop my youngest cousin onto my hip.
“Steve.” She whispers in my ear like a good little informant. “She’s got a crush on Steve Peterson.”
My eyebrows rise, and I look over to where Lo is promenading with her friends. “Is he a nice boy?” I ask my cousin, who’s also wearing a champagne silk dress, but hers is short with a flouncy skirt—more appropriate for a four-year-old.
She thinks a minute, then pokes out her bottom lip and nods. “I think so.”
Her pretend-adult behavior is too cute, and I give her a squeeze. “You know, Lo’s giving you her last doll tonight.”
It’s a tradition where the Quince gets a beautiful doll symbolizing the end of her childhood, which she passes on to a younger family member.
“I know!” Sofia’s eyes light up, and she bounces on my hip. “It’s Elena of Avalor. She’s even got the ruby dress!”
The doll is actually styled to match Lo, but Sofia can think it’s Elena. I’m trying to quiet my own nerves about how my brother will react to Deacon, not to mention Valeria.
“I’ve got to get ready. I’ll be back.” I kiss Sofia’s cheek and put her on her feet.
I’m about to dash up the stone staircase to my bedroom when a strong hand grasps my upper arm.
“Carmelita, I have someone I want you to meet.” Beto’s authoritative voice fans my nerves.
I try to pull away. “I’m not really dressed to meet anyone…”
“It’ll only take a moment.”
My argument trails off as a man about my brother’s age steps into my path. He has hazel eyes and wavy dark hair that hangs in one length
to his collar. His face is clean-shaven, and he’s wearing a slim-cut tan suit with a black shirt underneath.
“This is Mateo. Mateo, my sister Angelica.” I can tell by the way Beto introduces us it’s important to him. My insides squirm at the thought.
“How do you do.” I reach out to shake his hand.
“Angelica.” He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles lightly. “Beto never told me how beautiful his sister was.”
Our eyes meet, and he smiles. One eyebrow arches, and he has a devilish look. He’s handsome, but I’m not interested.
I’m standing here in cutoffs and a smudged tee with my wild hair piled on top of my head in a messy bun. I’m not wearing any makeup, and I’m pretty sure I have burgundy frosting on my face from when I moved Lo’s cake earlier.
“You’re too kind, Mister…” I look from him to Beto, and they both grin.
“You can call me Mateo.” My brother’s friend smooths his thumb across my fingers, and my stomach tightens unpleasantly.
“Mr. Mateo, it’s nice to meet you.” My tone is cool, not engaging.
“Just Mateo.”
“Well, just Mateo, I need to get changed before the party. If you’ll excuse me.”
“I’ll be here when you’re ready.” Mateo makes a face like he tastes something sweet as I walk away.
I immediately think of Lando Calrissian in The Empire Strikes Back. I’m waiting for him to say, Well, well…
Rushing up the stairs, I’ve got zero time to worry about my brother’s intentions. I’ve got to fly if I’m going to be ready in time. I quickly brush my wild curls back into a sleek, tight bun and step into a dress I bought at the vintage store. It’s floor-length, olive-green silk with a low V-neck, and it has a slit that stops at the top of my thigh. The color makes my tanned skin glow, and the neckline shows off the soft curves at the tops of my breasts. Deacon is going to love it, and my heart beats a little faster at the thought. I imagine his blue eyes darkening, his full lips pulling into a smile…
I dust brown shadow in the creases of my eyes and paint a slick cat-eye with black liquid eyeliner. Lashes on, I fill my lips with red lipstick. The result is a stunning, yet classic look. Holding up my phone, I take a selfie and send it to him with the text, So you can find me in the crowd.