Desire blew through him, stoking the fire he kept trying to bank. Instinctively he put his other hand on the small of her back, keeping her near him.
Yaz arched away a little, a mix of surprise and longing on her beautiful, tear-streaked face.
There was no way he could resist.
Tomás dipped his head, half expecting her to withdraw. Praying she wouldn’t.
Gloriously she met him halfway.
Her lips were soft, sweet. Perfect. Heaven and hell all wrapped into one explosive package he longed to rip open. He tightened his grip on her waist, pulling her closer still. She ran a hand up his biceps to the nape of his neck, fanning his desire when she dug her fingers into his hair.
She was like fresh water to a man stranded in the desert, lost and wandering alone for too long. Only, he didn’t crave just any woman. It had to be this one. The one who’d been driving him crazy, earning his admiration, burrowing her way into his life and making him smile and feel more alive the entire time.
Hungry for more, he deepened their kiss. Yaz moaned, a deep, guttural sound that spurred him on. He sucked her lower lip, savoring her taste of hot chocolate and marshmallows, along with a shot of something sinful and spectacular. Something that went straight to his head.
She leaned into him, pressing against his arousal. Seconds from going over the edge, he broke their kiss, bending to press a trail of tiny kisses down her neck. He nibbled along the edge of her low-cut sweater, licked the swell of her breast.
“Sí, por favor,” Yaz murmured, her voice breathy and heavy with desire.
Damn, she was so sexy, so open. So perfect.
A door opened and Rosa and Jeremy’s voices carried in from the front of the house.
Tomás and Yaz sprang apart like two teens afraid of getting caught by their parents. Chests heaving, they wound up on opposite sides of the kitchen. Yaz’s lips were swollen from his kisses, her eyes wide with . . . shock? Dismay? Fear?
Crap, he’d crossed the line. Again! Had he ruined the friendship they’d so carefully begun to build?
“Perdóname, I’m so sorry—”
“No, don’t say that.” Yazmine shook her head in short jerky motions over and over. “I shouldn’t have—”
“It wasn’t you. I’m the one at fault here. I know better.” No way would he let her take the blame. He’d initiated the kiss. He’d enjoyed it way too much. Taken it too far. The same way he had after the snowball fight in his backyard.
Guilt soured his stomach.
“Fine, it was both of us,” she said. “But it doesn’t have to mean anything. You were offering comfort. I took it. No big deal. Right?” Her voice went up an octave on the last word.
He stared at her warily, surprised she could brush off their attraction, the passion they’d shared, so easily. Then he noticed that she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
Her eyes at his chest level, she gave him the polite mask she used with difficult parents at Hanson’s. “I was a mess. You were—Maybe we got a little—whatever.” Hands stuck in her back jeans pockets, she edged away from him, like she was afraid he’d pounce on her again. “We both know this can’t really happen. I’m not Perfect Partner material. And that’s what you’re looking for.”
Tomás slumped against the door to the backyard, thankful for the support. There was no possible way he could feel like a bigger jerk than he did right now.
“Yazmine?” Rosa called from the living room.
Yaz flinched before answering. “In here! We were, we’re about to, to make more hot chocolate. Want some?”
She scurried over to the fridge, pulling out the gallon of skim milk. She busied herself with filling the pot and fiddling with the knobs on the stove. Not once glancing in his direction.
Disappointed in himself for bringing them to this uncomfortable place, Tomás strode to the basement door. Rather than wait for Rosa and Jeremy to witness Yazmine’s obvious awkwardness around him, Tomás called for Maria to come up. No use sticking around if his being here made things worse.
Come Monday, when Yaz arrived to take care of Maria, he’d keep things polite, platonic. Hopefully by then any awkwardness would have passed.
Sure, he needed her help with childcare, and Maria enjoyed spending her days with Yaz, but he’d come up with a different solution if she felt uneasy around him because he couldn’t manage to control his impulsive desire.
Heart heavy, he quickly bundled up Maria and left, crossing his fingers that he hadn’t totally screwed things up.
Chapter Thirteen
Yaz tugged open the oven door in Tomás’s kitchen late Monday afternoon, ducking her head at the wave of heated, sweet-smelling air that hit her in the face.
“Careful,” Maria cautioned from her perch on a stool at the island.
Yaz chuckled at Maria’s serious tone and the reminder she’d given each time Yaz opened the door. Apparently Tomás hadn’t been careful the night before and had burned himself when cooking a frozen pizza.
That probably explained the large Band-Aid she’d noticed on the back of his left hand this morning. She’d wanted to ask him about it, but that was kind of hard when she was busy trying to keep communication to a minimum.
It was day two P2K—Post 2nd Kiss—and she was still figuring out how to cram her attraction and growing attachment to him back into a dark corner in her heart where they belonged. So far, not so good.
“No worries,” she told Maria. “I’m using oven mitts. Here, don’t they look and smell delicious?” Yaz set the last tray of Christmas cut-out cookies on the stovetop to cool.
“Good job! Can I eat one yet?” Maria wiggled excitedly in her seat, making Yaz rush to put a steadying hand on her shoulder before the stool toppled over.
“I’m sure the first batch is ready for a taste test. Let’s see, you want a stocking, a Christmas tree, or a snowman?”
Maria oohed and aahed over the rows of cookies spread out on the cooling racks, while Yaz glanced around at the mess they’d made. Flour dusted the counters and the island. Bowls, stirring spoons, a rolling pin, and cookie cutters filled the sink. Salt, sugar, and other ingredients were piled off to the side, waiting to be put away.
She wasn’t necessarily the neatest baker in town. Something Rosa had often complained about when they were growing up. What mattered most, though, was how the cookies tasted. Based on Maria’s “mmmmm-ing,” the afternoon’s baking session was a success.
“Tasty?” Yaz snagged a snowman of her own. “Mmmm.” Definitely a success, and doubly so for her.
The baking had entertained Maria while also keeping Yaz’s thoughts on something other than Papi’s health or how she was going to forget Tomás’s kiss. Or the desire that sparked every time she was with him.
Since their steamy interlude—when she’d gone all animal instinct on him—Saturday evening she hadn’t been able to get him off her mind. Or out of her dreams.
His touch, his taste, the scent of his musky cologne. The sensual feel of his tongue along the rise of her breast. The sense of security she felt in his strong arms. All of it took her breath away, blasting coherent, rational thought to smithereens.
That could not continue. Their mind-numbing kisses had done nothing to change their situation. He was still intent on staying in Oakton and going through with his Perfect Partner Plan. She was still obligated—no, scratch that—destined to fly off to New York in search of success for her and Papi.
They were simply on two completely divergent paths that happened to merge for this short period of time. That’s all. She’d do well to remember that.
The door to the garage swung open and Yaz jumped in surprise.
“Papá!” Maria yelled, hopping off her stool to run to her dad.
“Hey, chiquita!” Tomás grinned, bending down to scoop Maria up in his arms.
The bottom half of Yaz’s snowman cookie slipped from her grasp onto the counter, contributing more crumbs to the mess already there.
She threw a har
ried glance at the digital display on the stove, where 4:15 glowed in green numbers. “You’re home early.”
“Apparently you weren’t expecting me.” Tomás’s gaze scanned his usually tidy kitchen. “You girls have been busy.”
“We’re making cookies for my class. We have a party tomorrow,” Maria said.
“And this flour?” Tomás brushed at the dusting on Maria’s cheek. “Are you saving it for later?”
Maria giggled. “No, silly. Ms. Yazmine says the bigger the mess, the better the cookies.”
“Then yours must be delicious.” He winked at Maria, then turned his attention to Yaz, including her in his teasing compliment with his lazy grin.
Ay, but he was irresistible. Watching him tease Maria, ignoring the floury handprints she’d left all over his suit jacket, made him even more endearing.
His grin suggested there might be hope for him and Yaz. They’d been painfully, if politely, distant this morning—she getting a feel for where they stood after Saturday night, he seeming to wait and take his cue from her. Thankfully the morning rush had left little time for chitchat.
Now that he was home, the true test would come.
Picking up the spatula, she started transferring the last batch from the cookie sheet to the cooling racks on the island. Tomás set Maria down and stepped closer, checking out the fruits of their labor.
Suddenly the kitchen shrank in size. Yaz felt boxed in between the counter, the stove, the island, and his hulking frame. The mix of sweet cookie batter and his woodsy scent blended together, creating an unusual mix. One she found oddly stimulating.
If they were a normal family, he’d drop an affectionate welcome-home kiss on her lips. She’d lean in for a hug, a brief tease of what would come when they headed off to bed together later that night. If only . . .
The spatula wobbled in Yazmine’s hand, clanging against the metal baking tray. The sound snapped her out of her daydream.
“My class is having two parties together!” Maria held up two fingers to emphasize her news.
“How did you get so lucky?” Tomás asked.
“’Cuz it’s Christmas aaaand we have a new teacher! Ms. Yazmine’s friend. And she ate lunch with us!”
Tomás’s “ooh” hit the right note of awe and Maria bobbed her head in agreement. His deep baritone intermingled with her high-pitched voice, the sweet sound a melody and harmony in sync. A welcome tune to Yaz’s ears.
Watching them interact, Maria’s little hands waving through the air as she spoke and Tomás’s devoted interest in her story, both surrounded by the mess of the day’s baking extravaganza, brought memories of Yaz’s own childhood. Papi leading them in a Christmas carol from the kitchen table. Mami stirring a pot on the stove. Lilí and Rosa squabbling about something silly. Ay, what bittersweet times.
Tomás and Maria would create other memories like this, too. Though she wouldn’t be a part of them. Another woman would be here with Maria, excited for Tomás to walk through the door. Welcoming him home with a kiss.
The thought dragged her spirits down, bringing her to a low point she hadn’t felt since the last time she hadn’t made an audition cut. That realization scared her.
He shouldn’t be this important to her.
This life he was creating with his daughter shouldn’t mean so much to her.
Rattled, Yaz picked up the empty baking tray with trembling hands. She turned to the sink, her back to Tomás and Maria and the scene she didn’t belong in.
Maybe she wouldn’t be here with them, playing a part in their special family moments, but she’d be doing something else even more important—honoring Papi’s legacy. Especially after he was gone.
That responsibility weighed heavily on her, but she’d continue carrying the load, proving she was strong enough to handle it.
“So, Yaz, your baking strategy is a bit unique,” Tomás said, drawing her into his conversation with Maria.
“Hmm?” She gave him a questioning look over her shoulder.
“The bigger the mess? Somehow that piece of advice didn’t get handed down in my house growing up.” The corners of his mouth quirked up in a teasing smirk.
His grin eased her worries about how they’d move past their awkwardness. The teasing, flirty Tomás she could deal with. The sensual, passionate one she had a hard time resisting.
“Hey, you’re home earlier than normal. I thought I had several hours left for frosting and cleanup.” She nudged the faucet lever on with the back of her hand to start washing the dishes. “What happened, they get tired of you at the office and send you home?”
“Cute. I knew there was something I liked about you—your twisted sense of humor.”
“I’m here every day all week. You should have seen the earlier show.”
His chuckle sent shivers across her shoulders, scurrying off to places in her body that had no business keying on his sexiness.
“Maria, will you please put my suit coat on my bed? I’m going to help Ms. Yazmine clean up a little.”
“I’ve got it, you two go—” Yaz broke off when she turned to see Maria already skipping into the dining room, Tomás’s flour-dusted coat draped over her arm.
Tomás stepped around the island, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he rolled up his light blue shirtsleeves. Her heart stutter-stepped, her imagination jumping ahead to him slipping off his shirt completely. His hands untying the frilly apron she’d found in a drawer and—
“Hand me that rag and I’ll get started on the counters.”
Yaz spun back around to the sink, mortified at her mind’s meandering. Focus, focus. She squeezed her eyes closed, desperate to get her thoughts on a more appropriate track. This seesaw of emotions was going to make her a nervous wreck.
He seemed to have moved past their post-kiss awkwardness. Obviously it hadn’t affected him as powerfully as it had her.
Pues, she’d been able to move on from more earth-shattering experiences, too.
“Go for it. I’m all for pawning off chores on someone else. Here.” She tossed him a wet dishrag, her throw a touch more forceful than she intended.
The rag hit him square in the chest, leaving a dark blue wet mark on his shirt. Tomás blinked in surprise, grabbing the rag before it fell to the floor.
“Oops, sorry.”
He arched a brow. “Everything okay?”
“Yep.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“Nope.” Inside her stomach quaked with nervous energy. “You?”
Tomás eyed her like a specimen under a microscope. “The other night . . . ?”
“Water under the bridge. Already forgotten.” Ay, qué mentirosa.
Well, not a liar, more like a self-preservationist.
“The thing is, you were right. I’ve got my plan here. And you’ve got yours . . .” He gestured toward the doorway. “Out there.”
She nodded. Her throat clogged with tears she had no business crying.
“So, we’re good?” He dragged out the words, the first note of hesitation she’d heard in his voice since he’d gotten home today.
She nodded again. In reality, though, she really wanted to ask him if he was sure. Only, she was too chicken.
Instead she watched him swipe at the island with his rag, sending flour cascading onto the floor. When he didn’t seem to notice, Yaz frowned, puzzled. He was Mr. Type A, cleaning up messes was his specialty, not making them.
“We both had momentary lapses in judgment. That’s all,” he said, sending another shower of flour onto the floor.
She wondered if his calm, measured tone was the same one he used in the boardroom to sway clients who were on the fence. And whether he was trying to convince himself or her now.
“You don’t have to worry about that happening again,” he continued.
“Okay.”
“Good.” He gave a brisk nod, then stopped to frown at the flour dusting the tile floor. “Hopefully we can get back to normal then.”
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Whatever normal was. She didn’t know anymore.
When he continued wiping down the counter, this time scooping the debris into his palm, she got back to work on the dirty dishes. “So, um, how was your day?”
She sensed him moving around the island behind her and she pressed against the sink, giving him more room to get by.
“We heard from the Linton representative. We made the first cut and will present our final mockups in mid-January.”
“That’s great!” Yaz rinsed off a handful of cookie cutters and dropped them on the drain board. “It’s nice they’re still interested in you. Or, I guess, your firm, right?”
“We’re in the top three. Excuse me.” Tomás leaned in to rinse off the rag, his shoulder bumping against hers. Even through her sweatshirt she felt the electric shock of his touch.
Yaz sidestepped, removing herself from the pleasurable tingles. “Any lunch dates this week? Since your coffee date with Janet last week, you haven’t said much about your Perfect Partner search.”
“Because I’m not calling it that. You are.” He flicked water at her with his fingers and she swatted at his hand.
“¡Oye! Be nice.”
“You asked for it,” he teased.
“By your deflection of my question, I take it you’re in a holding pattern.” Not good. While the thought of him going out with another woman rankled, it was also a reality check for her. A reminder that she didn’t fit his needs. “No new prospects?”
She caught his nervous swallow and she narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. “Are you holding out on me?”
He flashed a sheepish grin that made him look more like a mischievous little boy caught with his hand in his mamá’s cookie jar.
“Come on, spit it out,” she urged.
Sliding over near the fridge, he opened the small junk drawer where they kept pens, scissors, and other loose items. He withdrew a pink sticky note and two other small pieces of paper. Rolling his eyes, he held them out to her without a word.
“What’s this? Who—?” She stopped when she recognized the name scrawled above a phone number on the sticky note. Pamela Starnes. One of the moms at Hanson’s Academy. The other two slips held familiar names and numbers as well. “How did you . . . ? When did you . . . ? The recital.”
His Perfect Partner Page 17