“You better believe he’s going to pay me. For replacing a priceless leaded-glass window, pain and suffering, and anything else I can come up with. Jesus! It’s like everyone in the world has been infected by my sister. Marisolmonella.”
“I hear there’s an ointment for that,” Lola added, half slur, half snicker.
“If Fox wanted me to talk to their guy, they might’ve thought twice before letting him destroy my property. Freakin’ imbeciles.” Cristy snatched the bottle and poured herself another slug of tequila. She knocked it back, coughed, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She aimed her finger at Diego. “And they can shove their exclusive. If I talk to anyone, it’ll be Wyatt and the Wicked Witch.”
Diego raised his eyebrows. “You’re gonna do the show?”
She pouted. “I’m still thinking about it.”
The doorbell rang, and Cristy and Lola jumped and grabbed onto each other. Diego pointed toward the window. “Calmaté. The board-up service,” he reminded them. “Or the cops. Either way, I’ll take care of it. Go on up, Cristy. Lola, they’ll probably want a quick word with you.”
She sighed. “I figured as much.”
Cristy swayed to her feet, then steadied herself with the table edge for a moment before attempting to actually walk. When she’d found her center of balance, she zigged toward the stairs. Diego headed for the door, with Lola zagging at his heels.
“Lo, I’ll move your stuff into my room,” Cristy said. “Just show Diego where the guest room is, then come on in whenever you’re ready.”
“You got it.”
Cristy paused halfway up the stairs. “Oh, and be sure to get a bill so I can send it to Fox. And my evil sister.”
“Will do,” Diego said. “Anything else?” The doorbell rang again, followed by a quick knock.
“Yeah. Don’t forget to lock up. The way my luck’s going, who the hell knows what might go bump in the night.”
Lola placed a hand on her abdomen and looked ill. “Ugh. Yeah, that whole sleeping easy thing I said earlier? Kiss that notion good-bye.”
Chapter 8
“So, who is this Diego guy, really?” Lola asked later, as they lay side by side in Cristy’s antique sleigh bed.
“What do you mean?” Cristy glanced over. Her heart thudded. “He’s an old friend of my sister’s. I told you that.”
“I mean, who is he to you?”
Cristy stared up at the ceiling saying nothing. Finally, she murmured, “No one. Really.” She waited for Lola to acknowledge that, and when she didn’t, Cristy sighed. “Okay, he was the hottest senior at our school when I was a freshman.”
“Not hard to believe. And?”
“And what? Nothing.”
“Liar. And?”
“What is this, truth or dare?”
“No, it’s your friend asking you a straightforward question and expecting a straightforward answer.”
“Fine. I used to have a big gnarly crush on him. The kind where you sit in class writing versions of your name with his into the margins of your spiral notebook. ‘Cristy Mora. Mrs. Cristy Mora. Diego and Cristy Mora’—that kind of crap. Complete with heart doodles. Yes, I fantasized about being his blushing bride. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Depends.” Lola shrugged. “Is it the truth?”
A short pause ensued. “It’s the truth. Stupid, huh?”
“Honey, if you hadn’t crushed on that man, then the word stupid would apply. He’s divine.”
Understatement. “Well, keep my admission to yourself, please. It’s one secret my sister never knew about.”
“Did Diego ever find out?”
“Hell no! After he helped my sister decorate for that hideous party, I never looked at him again.” She groaned. “I just couldn’t. Talk about a buzz kill. I couldn’t get it out of my head that every time he saw me, he probably thought ‘maxi pad.’”
Lola laughed. “He doesn’t strike me as that kind of a guy.”
“I know. I mean, he tried to be nice to me afterward, but it just creeped me out.” She hadn’t thought about the rest of that school year in a long time. She might have avoided Diego, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of his presence whenever he entered her air space. And, looking back on it, he sure seemed to have been around a lot. How had she forgotten that?
She rolled to her side, facing Lola, and propped herself up on one elbow. “You know, I had this weird idea that he was the one who put a stop to the constant harassment I suffered after the party. But I never found any proof. It’s just a feeling I had.” She sighed. “Probably wishful thinking.”
“What gave you the feeling?”
“I’m not sure.” She pulled the covers up tighter around her. “For months after the party, this small group of guys gave me shit daily. I’m not exaggerating. I did my best to ignore them, but one day it all just got to be too much, and I started crying in the lunchroom, like an idiot.”
“That’s so wrong,” Lola murmured.
“I remember every detail…it was lasagna day, and my tears kept hitting the congealed cheese on top. Splat. Splat. Splat. I still can’t eat lasagna to this day.”
“Ruining you for lasagna is a crime.”
Cristy nodded. “Diego must’ve seen them bothering me, because he walked up and asked me what had happened. I was so mortified. It was bad enough that I sat at a table by myself, like some loser. But for him to see me crying into my pasta? He was only trying to help, and I yelled at him to leave me alone, then ran off to hide in the girls locker room.”
“God! You poor thing.”
“The next day, the bullies’ little ringleader came to school sporting a big-ass shiner and a busted tooth, along with various scrapes and bruises. He never hassled me again. Not once.”
“That’s so romantic.”
Cristy scoffed and settled down on her back again. “Oh, please. The kid probably wiped out on his BMX. He never did seem very coordinated in gym class. I’m sure I concocted the whole Diego knight-in-shining-armor fantasy in my head.”
“I wouldn’t write him off so easily, my friend,” Lola said in a smug tone. “The chemistry between you two is utterly combustible. That doesn’t happen in just one day, which means it had to have carried over from before.”
Cristy groaned. “Lo? I know this feels like a slumber party, but let’s not fall too far into the junior high rabbit hole, shall we? I wasn’t some waifish, ethereal heartbreaker in seventh grade, believe me. I was nothing more than outgoing, popular Marisol’s dorky, bookworm kid sister. I had a mouth full of metal braces, a unibrow, and a nine-dollar hairstyle from Supercuts. Not to mention, legs so godawful skinny, my knees looked like knots in a couple of ropes.”
Lola laughed. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Besides, after they graduated, I never saw or spoke to Diego again.”
“Never?”
“Nope. Not until all this happened.”
“Hmm.” Lola flipped onto her side, with her back facing Cristy. She punched her pillow, then snapped off her bedside lamp. “It sure sounds like fate to me,” she murmured as she settled in. “G’night.”
Cristy didn’t reply, but only because her mind had begun to race. She reached over and snapped off her own bedside lamp, then stared up into the darkness, wide-awake.
Fate? She wasn’t even sure she believed in it.
But sometimes you just had to wonder….
He couldn’t sleep.
The muffled sounds of conversation drifting through the wall from Cristy’s room had long since ceased. The guest room had sufficiently darkened once the moon moved past his window. The mattress was firm, and the crisp white sheets felt cool against his skin. A soft, lulling breeze even drifted in from the open window, and to top things off, he was exhausted. And yet he just couldn’t seem to shut off his brain and slip into oblivion, no matter how hard he tried. Screw it.
Diego threw the covers back with a sigh and stepped onto the cool wood floor. He raked
both hands through his hair in frustration. He couldn’t very well prowl the house naked, so he pulled on a pair of jeans, but decided against a shirt. Too hot. At the last moment he grabbed his gun and threw a T-shirt over his shoulder, just in case. He eased open his door, then listened to make sure he hadn’t awakened the women. Silence. He slid into the shadowy hallway and headed for the stairs.
Maybe he was hungry. He never had been able to sleep well on an empty stomach. In any case, a few of those almost-better-than-sex cookies should hook him up. And if hunger wasn’t to blame for his insomnia, hey, the cookies sure couldn’t hurt.
At the bottom of the stairs he turned toward the kitchen, but a light coming from the main room caught his eye. He froze. Listened. Did he hear something? Yes.
Hand resting on the gun’s grip, he glided silently along the wall. He paused for a split second at the corner to listen, readied himself, then spun into the room and drew his gun in one smooth motion.
Cristy. “Shit!” He lowered his gun.
She glanced up and yelped, dropping the knitting into her lap and covering her mouth with both hands.
“Sorry about that.” He blew out a long breath and relaxed. He took in the picture of her, long hair loose and shiny, wearing pink pajama pants and a curve-hugging tank top that—holy hell—should come with a heart attack warning label. Her legs were twisted into a position that made his muscles scream just thinking about sitting that way, but she looked perfectly comfortable, awash in the lamplight, knitting. Of course.
“You scared me.”
She huffed nervously, pressing her palm against her chest. “I scared you? You almost gave me a stroke.” She frowned down at the jade-colored wool piled in her lap. “I even dropped a couple of stitches. Dang it.”
“What are you doing up?” He ambled toward her, cringing as he got closer. “And how can you sit that way?”
“Huh?” She glanced down. “It’s the lotus position.”
“Looks like the pretzel position.”
“Haven’t you ever done yoga?”
“Can’t say that I have, no.”
“It’s comfortable. Centering.” She straightened her back. “This is how you sit to meditate.”
“I knew there was a valid reason I don’t meditate.”
She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to wake Lola. What are you doing up, besides scaring me to death?”
“Making the rounds.”
“Oh.” She picked up her knitting but didn’t knit. She seemed to be staring intently at his face. Come to think of it, her gaze hadn’t veered below the level of his neck since he’d entered the room. Two red blotches rose to her cheeks.
Then it dawned on him.
“Sorry.” He yanked the shirt resting on his shoulder over his head and punched his arms into the sleeves. It astounded him how pleased her discomfort with his half-dressed state made him feel. “I didn’t think anyone would be up.”
“It’s okay.” She cleared her throat. “You surprised me, is all. It’s not as if I’ve never seen a half-naked man before.”
He raised one eyebrow at her.
She squeezed her eyes shut with a cringe, and when she opened them, her face grew even redder. “Forget I said that.”
Not likely. But he decided to let her off the hook for the time being. “The truth is, I can’t sleep, either.” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “I thought maybe a couple of those cookies might help. I’ll leave a few bucks next to the cash register.”
“Keep your money. At night, this is just home.” She angled her chin toward the big round table centered in the room. A plate of the buttery treats sat in the middle. “Besides, I beat you to the cookie idea. Help yourself.”
He secured the gun in his waistband, grabbed a couple of cookies, then swung a chair around next to Cristy and straddled it. He took a bite of a cookie, watching her knit. When he’d swallowed, he asked, “What are you making?”
“Oh.” She held up her work, seeming strangely flustered by the question. “This really difficult sweater pattern I’ve been too intimidated to attempt. It was one of my New Year’s resolutions. I know. Boring, huh?”
“Not at all. It looks like a complicated process.”
“Want me to teach you how?” she said, obviously teasing him.
“I already know how,” he said in a level, casual tone.
She blinked. Then again. “To knit?”
He nodded. “My abuela taught me how when I was a kid. I know my way around a sewing machine, too.” He took another big bite of the cookie.
Her jaw dropped open for a minute, then she shook off the surprise and scoffed. “Very funny. You had me going there for a minute. C’mon. No abuelita I know would teach one of her precious macho grandsons to do all that stuff.”
“You haven’t met my grandma.” He pulled a mock-fear expression. “She made us all play with baby dolls, too, so we wouldn’t burden the women we eventually married.”
“Seriously? She sounds amazing.”
“She was something else, that’s for sure.”
“What was your doll’s name?”
He hesitated. “Thor,” he said, even though it wasn’t true. He couldn’t actually remember the name.
“Who names a baby ‘Thor’?”
“Vikings?” With a shrug, he tossed the rest of the cookie into his mouth, brushed the crumbs from his fingers, then motioned for her to hand him the needles. She narrowed her gaze suspiciously but gave in and passed them over.
It had been a while. Awkwardly at first, he positioned and repositioned the needles in his hands. When he finally got the feel of them down and remembered the rhythm, he started whipping away at the row. He glanced up to find her gaping. “What?”
“I don’t believe it. You know how to knit.”
“I just told you I knew how.”
“Yeah, but I thought you were yanking my chain.”
“Nope. Took me a minute, but it’s just like riding a bike.”
“Wow.” She took her work back and ran her fingers along the ridge of his stitches. “Your tension is perfect.”
He hiked one eyebrow. “You expected anything less?”
She smiled so sweetly at him, it sent a fireball of desire straight to his gut. “Well, who knew? You’re just full of secrets, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “It’s no secret. You just never asked.”
She dipped her head, as if to concede the point, and started back on her project. “So, is knitting something you actually do? Or do you just know how?”
He rubbed his stubbly jawline with the back of his hand. “A little of both. I don’t do it much anymore. But I used to knit to chill out before football games in high school and college.” He aimed a finger at her. “And I’m trusting you to keep that little tidbit to yourself.”
“Who do you think I am, my sister?”
“Oh, no.” He couldn’t help but let his gaze travel over the creamy skin exposed by the tank top. “You’re very much an original, little Cristy Avila.”
For a moment she simply studied him, then her brow dipped. She took a breath, as if preparing to speak, but said nothing. Instead, with a nearly imperceptible shake of her head, she pressed her lips together and refocused on her yarn and needles.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She kept knitting for a few moments, then looked up, bit her lip. “Actually, can I ask you a question?”
“If I get to ask you one back.”
She scowled. “Is it about the phone sex?”
“Nope.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She paused. “Okay, deal.”
“Ladies first.”
She worked a few stitches, then tossed her hair and met his gaze. “This is probably stupid, but I’m just curious. And if the answer is no, I’m not going to explain why I asked it in the first place.”
“Enough with the disclaimers. Ask the que
stion.”
“Okay.” He watched her take a deep, fortifying breath. “Does the name Kevin O’Kane mean anything to you?”
That he hadn’t expected. “Hmmm.” He crossed his forearms over the chair back and drummed his fingers on the wood. “Kevin O’Kane,” he drew out, as if trying to place it. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “Wait. He’s the scrawny bully whose ass I kicked in high school because he wouldn’t leave you alone. Now I remember.” He smiled.
Her luscious, soft lips spread into a huge smile. “You did? I knew it was you.”
“Yeah?”
She lifted one toned shoulder in a half shrug. “Well…I suspected. Thank you, but why’d you do it?”
“That’s two questions, but since I’m in a generous mood.” He brushed off her gratitude. “O’Kane was a hair bag.”
She nodded. “Total waste of DNA.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” They smiled at each other for a few long moments.
“Thanks, Diego,” she said, more vehemently. “I mean it. He really made my life miserable until what you did.”
“De nada. Okay. My turn for a question,” he said.
“Go for it.”
A lock of her long hair slid over her upper arm like a feather against naked flesh. Instantly, all he could think of was that hair of hers draping over his body. Skin against skin. Him above her, beneath her, inside her. Lust sucker-punched him so hard it left him awestruck and speechless. He forgot what they’d been talking about.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
She pinned him with a droll look. “Your question?”
“Right.” He shook off the erotic images in his head as best he could. “Okay.” He’d been planning to ask her how her last three years of high school panned out, but a new question popped into his mind. “Here it is. Why don’t you date?”
She crinkled her nose. “That’s your question?”
He shrugged. “I’m just curious.”
“How embarrassing. Let’s see…because I’m a dork?”
He shook his head. “The real reason.”
“Does that mean you don’t think I’m a dork?” she joked.
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