by LK Farlow
After we hammer out the details—from design to deadline—Simon asks, “Y’all think she’ll like it? Right?”
Arrón claps him on the back. “Man, any kid would.”
“I can’t believe she’s going to be three.” His voice is wistful—the kind of voice a father reserves solely for his daughter.
“Desi will be seventeen her next birthday. My pollito is almost grown.”
“If it’s any consolation, she’s a good kid. You’ve raised her right.” Simon’s eyes brighten. “Just the other day, there was a new kid—a transfer—and she was lost. Desi not only walked her to her class but drew her a map and highlighted the best routes. Like, she’s just… a good kid.”
My eyes burn, but I force a smile. “It’s all Imani. She’s her mama through and through.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, brother. You do your part.”
We shoot the shit for a little more until Simon’s phone trills in his pocket.
“Hey, Goldilocks, everything okay?” A pause. “Again? Have you tried calling… yeah, no, I know. You want me to ride out and check on her? You sure? Okay. Love you.”
He sighs as he tosses his phone down onto the table.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, man, it’s just… Seraphine has Mags crazy worried.”
I clear my throat and prop my elbows on the tabletop, going for nonchalant. “Worried how?”
“She hasn’t been to work since her dad passed. She’s acting out—lashing out. Magnolia and the girls are obviously concerned. Hell, I’m concerned. Something’s gotta give, but the girl is as stubborn as a mule.”
“Did you hear about the fair?” Arrón asks, unknowingly baiting my hook for me.
Simon’s brow furrows. “No…”
I give him the bare bones, not wanting to tell her business behind her back. However, the little I divulge is enough to have Simon smoking mad. “What the fuck?” he growls, shoving his chair back from the table so hard it nearly topples when he stands.
“She’s okay. Desi actually called me, and I got there before anything happened.”
“Mateo, man, I don’t know what to say—how to repay you.”
I wave my hands in front of my chest. “No repayment necessary.”
He paces a few laps around the office, muttering to himself before turning to me. “You might change your mind after what I’m about to ask of you.”
A strange combination of interest and dread mingle within me. “Which is?”
“Could you maybe like… check on her?”
The dread turns to some other emotion—one I’m not too keen to name. My friend here doesn’t know it, but he’s basically just given me the keys to the kingdom. Regardless of the fact that nothing will ever be between the two of us, a few heated looks and banter never hurt anybody.
“Check on her how?” I ask, making sure to keep a neutral tone.
Simon scratches his chin. “I don’t know, it’s just… she won’t let Mags in. She barely even answers her calls, and you’ve sort of already been there for her. Maybe she’ll be more receptive to you?”
My lips twitch with a smile, but I school my features before it can surface. “If you think it’ll help.”
Arrón sits silently, his phone in hand. To anyone else, he looks wholly engrossed in his screen. But I know him; I know he’s listening to every word Simon and I exchange. Just like I also know, the second we’re alone, he’s going to give me shit—like he’s been doing the past two years—for being attracted to her in the first place.
“I honestly don’t know, but it can’t hurt to try, right?”
Simon looks so hopeful, as if my intervention could somehow change everything for Seraphine. I’m not exactly sure that’s true, but I also know I’m going to try my damndest to get through to her. I’m going to rally around her fine ass until she rejoins the land of the living, even if I have to drag her out of limbo myself.
The path she’s on now leads to nothing but destruction, and if Simon thinks I can help, maybe I can. Our chemistry and harmless flirting aside, at this point, I don’t think my conscience will let me not try, at the very least, to get through to her.
I sure as hell would want someone to step in and help Desi—though, preferably without thinking about her sexually.
I shake off the bout of nausea that rolls through me at the thought of anyone thinking of my daughter the way I think of Seraphine, take a cleansing breath, and turn to Simon. “I’ll give it my best.”
Chapter Seven
Seraphine
I fight the urge to cry as yet another debt collector calls. Apparently, Dad fell behind on the mortgage for the shop and put the house—our home—up as collateral. I know toward the end, he wasn’t thinking clearly, but still, I find myself angry.
So very angry.
He could have at least told me, because now, it’s on my shoulders, and a heads-up would’ve been great.
But since luck’s rarely on my side, he never thought to mention how dire the finances were before ending his life.
I need money—and fast—if I want to keep a roof over my head, not to mention Dad’s shop. Which means I need to start looking for a new job, seeing as I’m too chicken shit to show my face back at the salon after ghosting them for the last three weeks.
The worst part is, I know they’d welcome me back with open arms, and I still can’t bring myself to do it. Magnolia, Myla Rose, and Azalea have all left me countless voice mails and texts, all of which I’ve ignored.
The thought of talking to them—people who know and love me—makes it hard to breathe. Every time my phone dings, it’s like my blood turns to sludge in my veins.
I’m pretty sure Simon’s been by a time or two—or at least I assume it’s him knocking on my front door—I wouldn’t know since I hide in my bedroom whenever anyone knocks.
Hiding from all of my problems is proving a poor coping tactic, but I feel stuck.
So damn stuck.
It’s like I’m in quicksand, and the more I try to figure everything out, the deeper into the pit I seem to sink.
“You can do this.” I pace the length of the living room, trying to pump myself up to call Dad’s lawyer. He’s been trying to reach me since the day after Dad died, but like everyone else, the thought of talking to him makes me feel like I can’t breathe. “Just pick up the phone and—”
I freeze at the sound of someone rapping on the front door, hoping they’ll give up after a few seconds. But this time, the pounding keeps on.
“Seraphine, open the door!”
I know that voice… but why would he be here? Especially after three weeks of radio silence.
I creep over to the window and peek through the blinds. Sure enough, smack dab in the middle of my porch is Mateo Reyes, in all of his brooding glory. He’s standing with his arms crossed and a frown on his face, looking as handsome as ever.
“I know you’re here. Your car is in the driveway.”
Still, I don’t acknowledge his presence.
“The lights are on. Open the door, mariposita, or I’ll open it for you.”
I balk at his empty threat, half tempted to do as he says, if only to yell at him.
“You asked for it.” I hear him mutter before the sound of the lock disengaging meets my ears.
“Oh my God!” I shriek as he flings the door open and steps into my home completely uninvited. “What are you doing? Get out!”
He pauses just over the threshold and takes me in, his dark eyes eating me up in a way that has shivers rolling down my spine.
“Put some clothes on.”
I’m wearing the same shorts from the fair but with a bralette instead of a shirt. It’s a perfectly acceptable ensemble to wear in the privacy of my own home, and really, it shows no more skin than a swimsuit would. Still, I fight the urge to cover myself. If this brute of a man thinks he can bust into my house uninvited and then boss me around, he’s wrong.
“Don’t like it?” I w
ave my hand up and down my body, showcasing the expanse of skin on display. “Then. Don’t. Look.”
Mateo growls low in his throat, like a wolf about to clamp its teeth around the throat of its prey. “Not liking it isn’t the problem,” he says so quietly, I question if I heard him right.
“Why are you here?” I ask, hands on my hips.
“To talk.”
“So, you busted my door down?”
He scoffs as he steps fully into my house, closing the door behind him. “Didn’t bust nothing. I used a key.”
“Why do you have a key?”
He tosses it to me. “It’s the spare from under your mat. Get a better hiding spot.”
All I can do is stare as he moves past me into the living room, sinking down into the center of our small couch. With his legs spread wide and his arms draped across the back cushions, he looks like a regal king, one I’d be all too willing to worship—you know, if I didn’t kind of want to stab him.
“You’re insane.”
“Be that as it may, you need a dose of reality, and I’m here to deliver it. Now, have a seat.”
“Where would you have me sit?” My eyes flare wide as I look around the room, not even remotely considering my dad’s chair as a viable option. “You’re taking up the whole damn couch.”
Mateo glances from me to the chair before shrugging. “I don’t care where you sit, so long as you do it.”
I’m not sure why, but I want to push his buttons the same way he’s pushing mine. Tit for tat.
I step up to him boldly, even though I’m bluffing. “Your lap looks mighty comfy.” I expect him to get a clue and make room for me.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he leans forward, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls, landing me squarely in his lap. I’m momentarily stunned. He’s so warm and firm beneath me, it’s a fight not to melt right into him and purr like a kitten.
A fight I’m apparently losing, judging by the smugly satisfied rumble coming from Mateo.
For a minute or two, neither of us speak. And while I’d never outwardly admit it, here in his arms with my head pressed to his chest, I feel a sense of peace I haven’t felt since my dad passed.
Until he speaks and ruins it.
“We need to talk.”
I sigh and pull away from his warmth. “About what? What could we possibly have to discuss?”
“What are you doing, Seraphine?”
“What do you mean? Currently I’m trying to figure out who you think you are!”
“I think I’m someone who cares. I’m someone who is worried about you. Simon told me you haven’t been back to work since your dad died. It’s been almost a month.”
I try to move off of him, but Mateo holds me in place.
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”
He brings his lips to my ear. “You’re right, it’s probably not my business.” My stupid, hormone-fueled, traitorous body turns to jelly, imagining him whispering sweet nothings instead. “But I’m going to make it my business.”
“Why?” I ask, my voice so thin it borders on whiny.
“Because I know how it feels to lose someone. I know how hard it is to pull yourself out of that deep, dark hole. I’ve been there, and if it weren’t for Desi, I’d have let it swallow me up. I don’t want that for you. Your friends don’t either, but they’re all too worried about overstepping.”
I pull back as far as he’ll allow and glance at him over my shoulder. “And you’re not?”
His sinful lips tilt up in a grin. “Not even a little.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got no skin in the game. Everyone else is walking on eggshells around you. But me? I’m gonna be like a bull in a china shop. You want to cry and hide and let life pass you by. That shit won’t fly with me.”
He sounds so genuine—but something prickles, like there’s more to it. I can’t help but feel he has other motives, but at this point, I know I need the help, so I’ll take it.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay? As in no more bullshit? You’ve got to get yourself together.”
I nod.
“Even if it hurts?” he asks.
“Yeah, even if it hurts.”
Chapter Eight
Mateo
I’ve spent the last seven days working on a plan for Seraphine. A plan her gorgeous, stubborn ass will probably shoot down out of pride alone. The headstrong woman needs help, knows she needs it, and still wants to go it alone.
She’s as confounding as she is tempting.
Still, she needs someone to guide her through her grief, and apparently that someone is me. Not that I mind. I’d rather put in the work than watch her waste her potential.
“Alexa—call Seraphine,” I command as I turn onto her street. Yesterday I told her I was taking her to lunch. She agreed—reluctantly—so I wouldn’t put it past her to try to bail.
The line rings three times before she answers, mumbling a sleepy-sounding hello.
“I’ll be there in about two minutes. Be ready.”
“What?” she asks, some of the grogginess leaving her tone.
“You heard me.” I disconnect the call before she can give me any lip. Sometimes, I think she talks back and picks fights just for the hell of it.
I idle in her driveway, waiting to see if she’s going to make me come in and physically get her. A thrill races through me at the thought of tossing her lithe body over my shoulder, my palm pressed tightly against her biteable ass to keep her still as I carry her out to my truck.
Maybe she’d squirm in my grip, mouth off a little, and I’d spank her pretty little ass red. The thought alone has my cock pushing against the zipper of my jeans. Seraphine is a five-alarm fire, and even though I know it’ll burn, she’s tempting enough for me to willingly stick my hand in the fire.
My budding fantasy fizzles when moments later, Seraphine walks out of the house dressed in a pair of ratty denim cut-offs, a distressed white T-shirt knotted at her waist, a leather jacket, and a pair of knee-high boots.
She looks damn fine. I’m talking I-wouldn’t-mind-seeing-her-handprints-on-my-hood fine—which truly says something, because my vehicles are my church.
If only I could do more than look. But I won’t—not today, not ever. I won’t dishonor my friendship with her father in that way. Also, I highly doubt she’s stepmother-material.
She flings open the passenger door and climbs into my truck with a snarl. “You rang?”
“You get an A-plus for following instructions.” I throw the truck into reverse. “But an F for attitude.”
“So funny I forgot to laugh.”
“You seem to forget a lot of things, mariposita.”
“Where are we going?”
Instead of answering right away, I let her sweat it out a little. From the corner of my eye, I catch her eyes trailing over the ink decorating my arm. I only got it last year, after a lot of waffling back and forth. The way she’s biting on her lip says she likes what she sees and it strokes my ego, so I give it a little flex just in case.
“I hate surprises, Mateo. The last one involved a suicide note.” Her words are coated in a heartrending mixture of sadness and bitterness, and I instantly feel like an asshole.
I rattle off a string of self-deprecating curses in Spanish. Truly, how could I be so stupid and insensitive? I know I vowed tough love—but that doesn’t mean without kindness.
“I’m sorry, Seraphine. Truly.”
She shrugs, and I worry I’ve fucked it all up before even laying my plan out.
“I figured we could go to Buster’s. Get some wings and talk. Is that okay?” I’m fully prepared for her to say no, which is why I’m surprised when she murmurs her consent.
“I guess.”
“Perfecto.”
Ten minutes later, we’re tucked into a two-seater booth near the bar, menus in hand.
“Hey there, my name’s Kasey and I’ll be—” She pauses abruptl
y when Seraphine looks up toward her. “Oh, hey.”
“Hey there, home wrecker.”
If it weren’t for their matching smiles, I’d be worried about our meals coming with a side of saliva.
“Is that ever gonna get old? It’s been like two years!”
Seraphine taps her chin, pretending to mull over the other woman’s question. “Mmm… no.”
“Whatever. What can I get y’all to drink?” Kasey jots down our orders and scampers off, leaving me to ask Seraphine what exactly their history is.
“Ha!” She snorts out a laugh. “Well… before Drake and Azalea got their shit together, he took Kasey out. He couldn’t get over Azalea, though. So, like the shit-for-brains man he is, Drake decided to try and use Kasey to make her jealous. It was a whole thing.”
“Uh huh,” is all I can say while keeping a straight face. It’s times like these that really highlight the age gap between us. She’s still elbow-deep in drama, and I’m… not.
“What?” She shrugs one delicate shoulder. “Those two were messy until they made it official.”
Kasey returns with our drinks and takes our food order—wings for me, a burger for Seraphine. Before I can fully weigh the consequences of my words, I turn to Seraphine and blurt, “You’re a little messy right now, too.”
I brace for impact, expecting her to fly off the handle. Instead, I’m met with a single arched brow and soft but lethal words. “Really? You think so?”
Like every man before who’s made a shitty comment without thought, I give her the age-old excuse of, “That came out wrong.”
Which makes me feel like a jackass, especially when she calmly leans back into her seat and says, “I’m sure it did.”
She stares me down as I struggle to find the right words. After a few painfully long seconds tick by, she gets tired of waiting. “Well, go ahead, try again.”
Dios mio, this woman. She wants to play hardball, so we will—even if it hurts. “No, you know what? I did mean it.”
Her brown eyes widen in disbelief.
“Could I have said it nicer? Definitely, but my poor delivery doesn’t change the facts. You’re letting your grief rule you.” She wants to deny it, to tell me I’m wrong. I can see it in her eyes, but I press ahead. “It ends today, mariposita.”