by Sabrina Sol
“Ha! Mine would be sticking my fingers into a tub of butter. Sounds like maybe our grandmothers should get together and exchange home remedies.”
She smiled but didn’t laugh. “My abuela passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry about that.” Eric raised his non-injured hand and lifted her chin with one finger. “Thank you for taking such good care of me. I hope the Robles family knows how lucky they are to have you.”
Amara’s heart raced. He stared at her, and this time she couldn’t look away if she tried. The want and need she saw reflected in the dark pools of his eyes reeled her in. Eric Valencia—the object of her silly teenage girl crush and regular subject of her grown woman fantasies—wanted to kiss her. And at that moment, she wanted nothing more in this world than to kiss him back.
It shocked the heck out of her that she was actually admitting it. What would people—what would her parents—say if they knew good girl Amara was thinking of making out with some man in the bakery’s kitchen? Although Eric wasn’t just some man, and that made it even more scandalous. The chisme police would have a field day.
Who says they have to know?
She’d given up so much over the years in order to do what she was told or what was expected. Stealing one kiss—one small piece of pleasure for herself—wasn’t only justified, it was well deserved.
And the fact that it was Eric gave it a certain forbidden feel that made it all the more tempting. It didn’t even matter that he’d just walked back into her life. The want she knew as a teenager had flared into raging desire the moment she’d recognized him.
So when he finally slid one arm around her waist to pull her closer, she didn’t stop him. He tipped her chin upward and she closed her eyes as their lips brushed against each other for one soft, hesitant first kiss. The contact lasted only a few seconds. Just long enough to make her crave a second one. Her eyes opened and she met his questioning gaze. He looked at Amara as if she’d appeared out of thin air and he had no idea how his mouth had ended up on hers.
Before panicky thoughts could set in about whether his puzzled expression meant he regretted the kiss, large calloused hands framed her face and his lips found hers one more time.
The gentleness from before vanished. This kiss was hard and deep.
His tongue pressed at her mouth, demanding she open for him. She surrendered willingly, clutching his shoulders for support as her body gave way against his. Her small cries of pleasure elicited deep, throaty groans from him. He moved his hands from her face to roam across her body in desperate exploration until finally cradling her back as he pulled her into a full embrace.
Everything else fell away at that moment. She lost herself in him and the way he kissed her. She’d been kissed before, of course. But never like this.
Fevered. Unrestrained. Shameless.
Every nerve and every one of her senses zinged to life. And with every kiss, he recharged her soul. It was exactly what she’d needed after that morning. She felt reckless and wild—the antithesis of every thing she’d ever been taught to be.
And she loved it. Especially what he was doing at that exact moment with his tongue to the curve of her neck.
Except for a small wince of pain when he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her onto the countertop by the sink, it seemed as if Eric had forgotten all about his burned fingers. And when he wedged himself between her thighs, so did she. Ohmigod. The feel of him growing harder by the second, right where she’d always dreamed of having him, sent Amara’s body into overload. Her heart rate sped up, her body quivered, and her breathing…well, who needed to breathe anyway. She clawed at his shirt, desperate to get closer.
But when his hand slid under the front of her apron and she felt his thumb brush the skin behind the buttons of her jeans, it triggered her internal alarm bell of sensibility. Although she wanted what was happening, the conventional side of her couldn’t let things go any further until he knew who she really was.
“Wait,” she whispered, placing an open palm against his hard chest. “I have to tell you something.”
His brows furrowed into a question.
She opened her mouth as the front door of the bakery jingled.
“Amara, it’s me! Your dad left his wallet by the cash register. I swear that man does things just to make me crazy.”
She vaulted off the counter and shot a glance at Eric.
Recognition crossed his face like a wave crashing onto the beach, changing everything that had been there before. “Amara?” He looked at her from head to toe and back again. Shock—perhaps even disappointment—replaced the desire in his eyes, and he stepped back. Way back.
“How come something smells like it’s burning. Aye dios, what happened here?” Her mother stood in the doorway, and by her contorted expression, Amara knew she’d be explaining this for days.
“The orejas burned and I couldn’t find the potholders, so Eric grabbed the pan with a dishtowel, but it was too hot, so he had to drop the pan, and he burned his fingers, so I was putting aloe vera on him… I mean, on his blisters.”
“Eric? Eric Valencia?” When Consuelo’s laser stare moved to the man standing next to her, Amara swore the temperature in the kitchen dropped a few degrees. She took a slight step away from him.
“Yes, it’s me. So good to see you, Señora Robles.” Eric moved as if he were about to hug her mom, but then stopped. He folded and unfolded his arms nervously across his chest.
Amara tried not to smirk, especially since her mother had that look on her face.
“Wow, what’s it been? Twelve years? What brings you back here?”
“Different things,” he answered, glancing at Amara. “I actually came today to try to find Miguel.”
Her mom bent to pick up the baking sheet from the floor. She carried it toward the sink, walking between Amara and Eric and forcing them to move even farther away from each other. She dropped the pan into the sink with a loud clatter that reverberated throughout the room. When it was quiet, she addressed Eric. “My Miguel works as an architect for a very successful firm downtown. He doesn’t really come by the bakery during the week. We’ll make sure to tell him you stopped by, though.” The sweetness of her tone was as fake as the saccharine her dad put in his café con leche.
“Thank you. I would appreciate it. In fact, I already gave my number to your daughter.”
Consuelo glared at her.
“I’d better be going then. It was so very nice meeting you, I mean seeing you again, Amara,” he said, emphasizing her name by rolling the “r.” “Buenas tardes, Señora Robles.” Then he strolled out of the kitchen to the front of the bakery.
Jingle. Jingle.
Her mom held out her hand. “Give me the number.”
“But, Mom, don’t you think it should be up to Miguel if he wants to call him or not?”
“Dámelo. Now.”
She reached into her apron pocket and gave the envelope to her mother, who then proceeded to throw it in the trash.
“That boy should never have come back here. He’s always been trouble and was always trying to get your brother into trouble with him. As far as I’m concerned, Miguel does not need to be friends with Eric Valencia again.” Consuelo walked to the pantry to retrieve the broom. Handing it to Amara, she said, “I thank the Virgin Mary every night that he never tried any funny business with you. It’s like I always tell you, mija. Girls like you don’t need to bother with boys like him. They take what they want and then disappear, leaving you and everyone else to clean up their mess.” She pointed to the floor and walked out.
As Amara swept up the pieces of burnt pastry, she tried to push any thoughts of Eric out of her mind. Her mother was probably right—neither she nor Miguel needed the complication that was Eric back in their lives.
Dear Lord, did she really just admit that her mother was right?
She walked over to empty the dustpan into the trash and spotted Eric’s envelope lying neatly on top of some wadded-
up paper towels.
The warmth of his touch came rushing back, along with the aching desire he’d awakened, and she couldn’t help but brush her lips with her fingers as she remembered how good it had felt to be bad.
She looked around the empty kitchen, took a deep breath, and reached into the trash.
Chapter Two
Amara Robles.
Eric stood outside the bakery, still not quite believing what had just happened. If it weren’t for the throbbing blisters on his fingers he might have convinced himself it had been nothing more than an alcohol-induced hallucination. But he wasn’t drunk—hadn’t been drunk in more than eighteen months.
He’d been stone cold sober when he hit on his ex-best friend’s little sister. Stone cold sober when he’d kissed her full, sweet lips and slipped his hand underneath her jeans to feel her smooth skin. Thankfully his hard-on had disappeared as soon as Amara’s mother showed up. But he could still feel the lust deep in his bones. He needed to walk it off before those feelings traveled south and made walking the two blocks home very difficult indeed.
I better take the long way back.
As he made his way past the colorful stucco houses crammed side by side along the hilly neighborhoods of East Los Angeles, Eric couldn’t help remembering all the times he and Miguel walked this very route to get to each other’s homes. Just as the Robles’ bakery still stood at the same Eastern Avenue location it had when he was a teen, the family’s bright peach-colored ranch style house also still sat in the same place—across the street from the bakery and just around the corner on Marney Street. A lifetime ago, Eric and his mom had lived on Marney, too.
The neighborhood hadn’t changed much, but Amara sure had. It’d been pure physical attraction that had made him start to flirt with her in the first place. Although she’d looked familiar, no way did the thought ever cross his mind that the sexy woman behind the counter was none other than Miguel’s little sister. For starters, last he heard, she’d moved away and got a job as a chef somewhere. So why was she back? And when had this transformation of hers taken place?
When he’d left East L.A., Amara had just been a silly teenage girl, but now she was definitely all woman. Grown-up Amara had curves in all of the right places. Curves a man could get lost in. His cock stirred under his tight jeans as he thought about the teasing glimpse he’d caught of those ample breasts, her nails digging into his skin through the thin material of his T-shirt, and the feel of her thighs wrapped around his own. He’d never be able to forget that her hair smelled of shampoo and cinnamon, that her tongue tasted like mint, or that her eyes had begged him after that first kiss to take more from her.
And so he had.
Who knew how much further things would’ve gone if her mother hadn’t shown up? He was halfway to thrusting into her, for fuck’s sake.
If he had known her true identity at first, he would’ve thanked her for taking care of his injury and then headed straight for the door. No matter how good she’d tasted, or felt in his arms, Amara was off limits. And not just because she was a Robles, but because she deserved better than him and the rough, frantic way he’d manhandled her at the bakery. No wonder she’d pulled away once he tried to do more than just kiss her.
The fact that she had kept on kissing him despite knowing who he was surprised him, though. Not that he’d ever had a problem with girls wanting to kiss him. Or any trouble earning his fuck ‘em and leave ‘em reputation with those same girls. He knew that afterward, they always whispered to their friends about how they’d been bad with Eric Valencia and how lucky they were that he hadn’t burned them in the process. He’d learned to shrug them off and not care what they said or who they told. After all, they knew perfectly well what it meant to hook up with him.
Nothing.
Turned out, though, whispers didn’t go away no matter how old you got.
Ever since returning to the old neighborhood a few weeks ago, he’d heard them as he left the grocery store or entered the taco shop on the corner. It was mainly older women or teenage girls, sending each other knowing looks and hiding their mouths behind their animated hands.
Even after all these years, this tight-knit Catholic community wouldn’t let him forget the sins of his past. He admitted he’d been a punk back in the day—tagging buildings, ditching school, shoplifting whatever he could from the corner liquor store. One time he’d even convinced Miguel to help him steal tools from a neighbor’s garage. They’d gotten caught and Miguel’s dad had to pay the neighbor off so he wouldn’t call the police.
Eric’s mom used to tell him if he didn’t straighten up he’d end up just like his own dad—a drunk who got knifed during a bar fight when Eric was just two years old. But it wasn’t until Eric’s high school girlfriend got pregnant just weeks before graduation that he decided to quit drinking and started thinking about making something of his life. He let himself believe he could be a regular guy with a steady job and a wife and kids at home.
Then she’d miscarried and everything changed again.
He tried to shake off the memories as he walked up the steps to his home.
It still felt weird to call the small blue house on Drucker Street “home.” For as long as he could remember, he’d known it as “abuela’s house.” But now he lived there, too, in the shadow of the Cal State Los Angeles campus. Even back in high school he knew he’d never be a student there. Guys like him didn’t do college. No, he’d always been destined for a harder life. Ironically, the only reason he didn’t end up in a gang was because he didn’t do well following orders. It didn’t matter in the end. Everything still went to shit.
The rich, mouthwatering aroma of beef soup greeted him as soon as he walked through the door. His stomach grumbled, even though he’d eaten a breakfast burrito only a few hours earlier. He’d already gained a few pounds since coming back—something his abuela took much delight in. When he showed up on her doorstep two weeks ago, she nearly cried. Not because she was happy to see him, but because he was so skinny. She fed him nonstop that first day, and he loved it.
“It smells so good in here,” he told her as he walked into the kitchen. He found her sitting at the table chopping cilantro. “I love your cocido.”
He bent down to kiss her cheek and she smiled. “Makes me happy to cook it for you, mijo. It’s ready. Let me serve you.”
“Mamá, he’s almost thirty years old. He can get his own food,” Eric’s mother yelled from the bathroom down the hallway. His abuela waved her hand in his mother’s direction and started to get up from her chair.
“She’s right. I can get it myself, and I’ll get yours, too.” He kissed her cheek again and walked to the cupboard to grab two bowls.
“Did you get the tortillas?” his mother asked as she entered the kitchen.
Damn it.
“I forgot.” He didn’t need to turn around to see her disappointment—it was the only look she gave him these days.
“Just take the bread for sandwiches, Diana. Es lo mismo,” his abuela said.
“It’s not the same, Mamá. That’s why you asked him to go to the bakery in the first place. You were the one who wanted the tortillas,” his mom said. “I swear it’s like you have amnesia when it comes to him.”
Eric put his bowl down. It was too early for a fight. “I can go to the liquor store on the corner and be back before you have to leave.” No way was he going back to the Robles Bakery. At least not today.
“Forget it, Eric. I’ll take the bread. I need to leave a little early anyway so I can pick up Frances from the bus stop.” She poured herself some soup in a round plastic container and shoved it into her insulated lunch bag. After grabbing a water bottle and a piece of bread, she kissed his abuela good-bye.
“Remember, I’ll be home by eight-thirty tonight,” she said to him. “She already had her aspirin this morning so just make sure she takes the heart pill and cholesterol pill after the first novela ends and before the second starts. Otherwise she’ll fall aslee
p and not take any of them.”
He nodded between slurps. It was the same routine he’d followed for the past fourteen days. He knew what to do to take care of his abuela, but he accepted the fact that his mother still had to tell him. After all, he’d agreed to live there under her terms.
After his mom left, he looked at his abuela and winked. She just shook her head and sighed. They both went back to eating their soup.
“Abuela, if you really want tortillas I can still go to the store.”
“Eh, es okay, mijo. I don’t need them after all.”
“I’m sorry I forgot them. It’s just that I got there and I was, um, distracted.” In more ways than one.
“Did you find your friend?”
“No, he wasn’t there. But I talked to his mother…and his sister.”
“Oh, yes, Amara. She works there now. Such a nice girl.”
It killed him to not ask for more information, but his abuela was smart. And far too nosy. He’d have to bide his time and ask when she wouldn’t be likely to suspect his motives. He finished his soup, thoughts of the shy, awkward tomboy who’d turned into such a desirable woman spinning through his head.
After he’d cleaned the kitchen, Eric pulled out a deck of cards from one of the cabinet drawers. He needed more information, and his grandma loved to gossip while playing solitaire.
He waited until she dealt out her hand before starting the interrogation. “So do you know why Amara is working at the bakery? You told me last year that she moved to Chicago.”
His grandma studied the cards. “She come back a few months ago. Ricardo hurt his back trying to pull something off a shelf. Then the doctor tell him he has the diabetes and high blood pressure and that he needs to stop working so much. Pues, Miguel has his own job and a wife—you know he married that girl you went to school with and she’s pregnant now… Aha! I won!”
He waited patiently until she dealt herself another round of cards and tried to get her back to the story. “So did Señor Robles tell Amara she had to quit and come home?” Although he couldn’t explain why, the thought turned his stomach.