by LK Farlow
After a pause, Desi replies, “Things and stuff.”
“Things and stuff, huh?”
“Yup. Stuff and things.” Listening to the two of them volley back and forth reminds me so much of Dad and me. Up until he couldn’t, he was always so invested in all things me. Even when he was in hospice, he’d use what little energy he had to ask me about my day, about boys, about life in general.
“Swear to God, you’re just like your mama.” The fondness in Mateo’s voice makes my heart ache in the most bittersweet of ways. Here I am, crushing over a man who’s already had his great love.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I decide to make my entrance, not wanting to take advantage of their hospitality by eavesdropping—well, any more than I already have.
Mateo hones in on me the second I enter the room. He parts his lips, as if to speak, but no words come out. He looks me up and down with a stare so heavy it feels like a physical caress.
My skin turns to gooseflesh under his scrutiny, and I can’t help but let my imagination run wild with what he might be thinking.
Is he imagining shoving the dishes from the table and tossing me down on it, or is he merely wondering when he’ll get these pants back from me?
Who can say—but with the way he’s biting on his bottom lip, I’m willing to bet it’s closer to the feasting on me option.
He’s practically in a trance until Desi claps her hands together mere centimeters from his face.
“Dios mio, Desi!” Mateo yells, but there’s no heat behind his words.
The teen girl doesn’t look even the least bit sorry. If anything, she looks proud. “If you’re done staring, I’d like some breakfast. Huevos revueltos a la Mexicana, por favor.”
My cheeks burn at her blunt observation—the fact that her dad might have just eye-fucked me in front of her is beyond mortifying.
I expect Mateo to correct her; instead, he gives me one last burning look before addressing his daughter. “Grab the eggs.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, feeling out of place.
Mateo shakes his head no, but Desi asks, “You know how to chop veggies?”
I nod.
“Great.” Desi grabs two cutting boards from the drawer and two knives from the block. “You dice the onion and pepper and I’ll do the tomato and cilantro.”
“She’s a guest,” Mateo admonishes. “Seraphine, go and pour some coffee and rest.”
“Um…” I’m like a deer caught in headlights. “I don’t mind helping. Really, it’s the least I could do.”
Desi shoots her father a victorious grin and then, like we’ve been doing it forever, the three of us get to work chopping and dicing and scrambling until there’s a skillet of sizzling eggs waiting to be devoured.
Chapter Five
Mateo
Breakfast is a lesson in self-control. Hell, the entire morning has been—last night, too.
From the moment I knew she was safe, I wanted to look—to drink my fill of her in those damn booty shorts. Especially when she was sprawled out on my bed, begging for my touch in her drugged state.
However, my mamá didn’t raise no cabrón, and I’d never take advantage of a woman in her state. But when she walked into the kitchen in my sweats, all bets were off. I realized Seraphine Reynolds is a thirst I’ll never quench.
I don’t know if it’s because she’s the first woman I’ve seen in my clothes since Imani, but the sight of it short-circuited my brain and had all of my baser caveman instincts clawing their way to the surface.
I wanted to do more than look; I wanted to touch—to feel her soft, tanned skin beneath my calloused hands. The way the rolled waistband sat low on her slim hips, all I could think about was how easy it’d be to slide them down her toned legs.
More than that though, I wanted to taste—to part her pretty little thighs and bury my face between them and feast. Until Desi clapped in front of my face, I was a simpleton with a single focus in mind—claim her.
Which is problematic for a slew of reasons.
“Oh, God, I didn’t know eggs could be so good,” Seraphine mumbles quietly to herself, prompting me to go over said reasons again, for what has to be the tenth time this morning.
A man shouldn’t think these types of thoughts about the daughter of a man they call a friend—even if it is in a more professional capacity.
A man especially does not think these thoughts in front of his own daughter.
These are definitely not the thoughts a man has for a woman sixteen years younger than him, one not even old enough to legally drink.
And yet, here I am, having every single one of them—and then some. It’s all too easy to imagine her here with us every morning. While Seraphine has certainly caught my attention, she’s never evoked such a visceral response.
“Aren’t they the best?” Desi agrees, all sunshine and smiles, which is curious because the kid is usually a beast in the mornings.
The dark-haired beauty may as well be a mirage in the desert or a poisoned well, because one sip, one drop, one taste, and I know I’ll be a goner.
Seraphine takes one last bite before pushing her plate away. “I could literally eat them every day. Wow.”
“If you think these are good, you should have my abuelita’s chilaquiles. No lie, they’ll change your life.”
She regards Desi thoughtfully. “I’m not sure what that is, but I can’t imagine anything better than this.”
Desi goes to reply, but I beat her to the punch. “You’re good for a man’s ego, mariposita, but let’s get you home.”
My daughter’s eyes widen, and I realize my slip. Mariposita. I’m not sure when I started calling her that, but damn, to do it here, in front of Desi…
“Oh, um, yeah. Do… should I help clean up?”
“Nah, we got it,” I assure her.
“I’m gonna—I need to use the restroom before we leave.”
Desi nods her head back toward the hall. “Second door on the left.”
Seraphine nods her thanks and takes off down the hall.
“Little butterfly, huh?” Desi asks with barely disguised glee.
“I don’t know, Des. It just… slipped out.”
“I’m just saying, you call her little butterfly and me little chicken.”
I grin. “I cannot help you there; your abuelita gave you that name. Take it up with her.”
“Do you like her?”
“Who?” I play dumb. “My own mother? Yes, I love her.”
“No, Dad, Seraphine. Do you like her?”
Silence rules as I grapple with how to respond. Ultimately, I go for honesty. “I don’t know. I’m… attracted to her.” Dios mio, this is not something I want to talk about with my daughter. “But I do not plan to act on that attraction. You have nothing to worry about.”
Desi rolls her eyes and mutters under her breath, “Except you dying old and alone.”
“What was that?”
“You’re still young, Dad, and Mom would want you to be happy.”
Her words rankle. “I am happy, pollito. I have you.”
“I love you, Dad, but you need more than me. You need someone just for you. In two years, I’ll be off to college and then what?” She crosses her arms and stares me down. “Plus, it might be kind of nice to have a woman in the house, right?”
I scrub a hand over my face. I never knew she felt like this. Have I failed her somehow by not providing a motherly figure? “Des—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“I’m not saying you have to go out and marry her and put a bun in her oven; I’m just saying I’m not opposed to you dating.”
“She’s too young,” I say dismissively, right as she walks back into the room.
“Um, I’m ready.” Seraphine looks down at her feet. “To go… home.”
I don’t know if she heard me or not, but judging from the wounded-puppy look she’s got going on, I’m guessing she did. I won’t feel guilty, though, because it�
�s true. Regardless of how tempting she is—very—she’s too young. Too naïve. Too immature. She’s impulsive and reckless and probably not the best role model for Desi.
“Great, let me grab my keys.”
I run back to my bedroom and grab the keys to my GTO, since my truck still needs a thorough cleaning. As I head back to the kitchen, my phone dings with a text.
Desi: Age is just a number.
Swear to God, this kid… she’s going to have me gray long before college.
By the time I get back to the kitchen, Desi is nowhere in sight, and Seraphine is standing by the island waiting for me.
“You ready?”
“Yup,” she replies, not meeting my gaze.
“Everything okay?”
“Never been better.” The bite in her tone catches me off guard; it’s a stark contrast to the curl of her shoulders and the way she’s looking at everything except me.
I cock my head to the side as I study her, waiting to see a glimpse of the fiery woman I’ve come to know.
Instead, she gives me her back, tossing a let’s go gesture over her shoulder.
Knowing it’s in my best interest not to push her, I follow along—until she realizes she doesn’t know where she’s going. “The hall on the left,” I tell her, still letting her lead.
She pauses at the door to the garage, and I crowd her from behind, reaching around her to open the door. For a fleeting instant, I’m struck with the vision of spinning her to face me, hoisting her against the door, and devouring those pouting lips of hers like a man possessed.
I settle for resting my hand at the small of her back as I guide her to my most prized possession—the GTO that beat her dad’s.
Seraphine scoffs when I hit the unlock button on the fob. “A purist like your dad?” I ask, fighting the grin begging to break free.
“Some things are better left original.”
“Whatever you say, mariposita.” I open the door for her.
“Don’t patronize me,” she snaps as she lowers herself into the leather-wrapped bucket seat.
I hold up my hands in innocence. “I’m not.” She glares, and I rush to add, “Truly, I’m not. We’re all entitled to our own opinions. Your dad liked to keep things OG, and I prefer to modernize. There is no one right way.”
“So now you’re saying I don’t have my own opinion?” She crosses her arms beneath her breasts, pushing them up in the most tempting of ways.
“What? No, I—”
She bursts out laughing. “Chill. I’m messing with you.”
“Malvada,” I mutter under my breath as I stalk around to the driver’s side.
I turn the key and the engine roars to life. The sound alone—the deep, fierce growl—gives me chills every time. This car was originally a resto-mod for a buyer, but he backed out, and I decided to keep her for myself. It cost a small fortune to fix her up, but I have zero regrets.
“Buckle up.” I check my mirrors and throw it into reverse.
“Yes, sir.” Her emphasis on sir tells me she was being a sarcastic little shit, trying to make me feel old. The joke’s on her though, because now, I’m imagining all of the other scenarios in which she could call me sir—and trust me, there are many.
“You still live over on Tupelo?”
“All my life.”
I back out into the street, and Seraphine snorts out a laugh.
“What?”
“It’s just”—she shakes her head—“you really do live clear across town. Go figure.”
She’s a little odd, this one. “Yeah, I guess I do. Wanted to be close to family.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this, but my gums keep flapping. “Especially when Imani got sick. It just seemed… easier, you know? To have help close by. Mi mamá and my sister, Silvia, live a block away, and Arrón is the house behind mine.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay.” She sounds about as confused as I am over the unwarranted info-dump.
“Tell me,” I say, changing the subject, “what’s going on with your dad’s shop?”
In my periphery, I notice she balls her hands into tight fists in her lap. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, surely he had appointments and customers when he passed. What is going to happen to his shop?”
“Why do you care?” There’s that petulance again, shining through to remind me of her age.
“I care because he was a good man who had damn near perfected his craft, and I know his customers are curious as well.”
She huffs. “I don’t know, okay? His lawyers and even a few customers keep calling the house, but I don’t know what to tell them.”
“Ignoring a problem won’t make it go away, Seraphine.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
I flip on the blinker to turn onto her street. “I think you’re under a lot of stress and dealing with what feels like insurmountable grief. It’s okay to need a little help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“You do.”
I pull into her driveway, taking note of how rundown the place looks. The once-pristine ranch-style home now shows its age. The yard is overgrown—practically a jungle—and the exterior is in need of a good pressure washing, probably even some paint. Judging from the state of the house, Dave was too unwell to care for it for a while.
I gesture to the scene before us. “Clearly you do.”
Seraphine sniffs, and she unbuckles. “I’ve been busy.”
She reaches for the door handle but I stop her. “Busy with what?”
“I don’t really see how it’s any of your business.”
Disappointment has me shaking my head—though I’m not sure who I’m more disappointed in: me for basically shaming her for how she’s dealing with the loss of her father or her for burying her head in the sand.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She gets out of the car, but I holler after her before she has a chance to swing the car door shut. “Just know—it doesn’t make you weak.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Asking for help.”
Chapter Six
Mateo
It’s been two weeks since my fairground rescue, and as loathe as I am to admit it, I haven’t stopped thinking about Seraphine since. Damn bewitching woman has me under her spell.
So much so that I’m not even a little bit ashamed of my plans to fish for info from Simon when he stops by the shop this afternoon.
Until then, there’s a lift kit with my name on it.
Countless hours later, my stomach rumbles, and I break to find food.
“Brother!” Arrón hollers from halfway across the garage as I head to the sink to scrub my hands. “You about done?”
“Not quite.”
“It’s been six hours.”
I glance up toward the giant clock on the wall in disbelief. I worked straight through lunch, and Simon will be here shortly.
“Chinga tu madre!” I rack my brain trying to catalog the contents of the fridge in the office. I didn’t bring a lunch and don’t have time to go anywhere.
“¿Qué pasa? What’s wrong, brother?”
My stomach grumbles, answering Arrón for me.
“You’re in luck.” He grins.
I quirk a brow, gesturing for him to explain.
“I ran by Jefecita’s and she made enchiladas de mole.”
“And you saved me some?” I’m already salivating, just imagining the taste. Nobody—and I mean that—is a better cook than my mother.
He pinches his thumb and forefinger together. “Un poquito.”
I crack a smile. “Better than none.”
“I’m a real fucking saint.” Arrón smirks, miming a halo over his head.
“Yeah.” I turn and walk past him. “Saint Dipshit.”
“Talk all the shit you want, Mate, but I could have eaten it all.”
“Too true,” I concede, holding the door to the office open for him.
The second I step foot into the room, the familiar scents
of Mamá’s kitchen greets me, causing my mouth to water.
“Is there rice?”
“Does a cow have spots?”
“Hell yes.”
At the small corner table, I tear into the container Arrón brought, readily forking a mouthful of spicy-sweet goodness into my mouth. I groan in delight as I clean my plate. “Fuck, that is good.”
“You kiss your mama with that mouth, Mateo?”
I turn toward the new voice, smiling ear to ear. “Simon—funny man.”
“I’d like to think so,” he says, pulling up a chair to the table.
“And I’d like to see you talk like that in front of Jefa.” My brother laughs to himself. “She’d tear you up.”
“Nah, she loves me too much.”
“Whatever, everyone knows as the oldest, I’m her favorite; you’re just the middle child.”
“You lie and you know it,” Arrón says with a chuckle, running a hand over his head.
“Yeah, Silvi is her favorite for sure,” Simon adds. He’s only been around them a handful of times, and even he knows our little sister wears the proverbial crown.
“Truth. The baby and the only girl.” I pop the last bite of food in my mouth and turn to Simon, focusing my attention on him. “What’s good with you?”
“Everything, man, but I gotta odd request for you.”
“How odd?”
“I want to give Willow a custom Power Wheel for her birthday, and you’re the man for the job.”
Arrón and I both break into matching grins. “How custom?” he asks.
“Lift it a little, a brush guard bumper with a play wench, paint, decals, basically the works.”
My brother and I are both howling with laughter now. “Eres un loco hijo de puta.”
“Crazy?” Simon asks. “Definitely. As for being the son of a bitch—jury’s still out.”
I freeze, worrying we’ve offended him, until he cracks up as well.
“So, can you do it?” he asks through his laughter.
Arrón mutters his questions back to him under his breath while I answer aloud. “We can do it. When do you need it?”