Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“I didn’t know you were half-Mexican, though now I feel silly for not realizing. There’s something about you…”
He arches a brow, encouraging me to continue.
“The tan. The dark hair. The sultry bedroom eyes.”
“The what?” He laughs, and the sound feels so good. There’s nothing better.
I smile. “Come on. Women have to tell you that all the time. We’re all very jealous of those long dark eyelashes, by the way.”
He shakes his head. “Believe it or not, no. I’ve never heard that before.”
Right. Maybe other women aren’t paying that much attention to his eyes. There are a lot of other things to admire about him, after all.
I turn back to my task as he takes a knife out of the knife block and starts slicing tomatoes for the pico. I half expect him to look like an amateur while he does it. I’m not sure how much time he’s spent in a kitchen, but if anything, he’s more adept at it than I am.
“You’re from Arizona, right? Did you visit Mexico often while you were growing up?”
He shakes his head. “Never been, actually.”
“Seriously?”
He seems amused that this would surprise me.
“I come from humble beginnings here in the States, though my dad’s family in Mexico was pretty wealthy. He could have stayed and enjoyed that life, but he chose to come here and be with my mom instead. When he did that and left his family, they cut him off. There’s a lot of bad blood there.”
“Wow, that’s…” I shake my head, not even knowing what to say. “How did he meet her? Your mom?”
“She was studying abroad in Mexico City, taking art and architecture courses. She went out to a bar one night with friends. My dad was there.” He shrugs. “The rest is history. They fell in love fast and it never faded. Even after my mom passed away, my dad never so much as thought about remarrying. He sees no reason. The love of his life still lives.” He taps his fingers over his heart as if to say, Here.
God, I hope everyone enjoys their guacamole with a side of tears. I can’t imagine. My parents are devoted to each other too, but it’s not like either of them had to choose their relationship over their families. That’s quite a sacrifice.
“Do you speak any Spanish?”
“Nah, not really. I’ve learned some only because I’ve taught myself. My dad prefers if we speak English.”
“Really? Why?”
“I’m not totally sure. I’ve never asked. I assume he just wanted me to fit in and settle here in a way maybe he never really could.” He narrows his eyes as if mulling this over. “His name is Javier, and he still has a pretty thick accent. It hasn’t always been easy for him. It’s probably why he named me Grant, after my American grandfather.”
“But your last name is Navarro,” I point out with a smile. “So you at least have that. And it’s a great last name by the way. I love the way the announcer says it at the stadium.”
He laughs. “Yeah? Hopefully my future wife feels the same way about it.”
Oof. Why does that hurt?
I pretend all is well as I ask, “How long has it just been you and your dad? You mentioned your mom passed away—”
The door to the apartment opens then and I hear Michael’s voice over the hum of music and conversation in the living room.
Michael.
Oh no.
I was expecting him tonight, but well…quite frankly, for the last few minutes I completely forgot all about him.
“Michael, hey!” Sophia and Daphne greet him, but it’s crickets from the guys.
“Hey, everyone. What’s up? Is, uh…is Tate here?”
Someone must lead him this way, letting him know where to find me, because he appears in the small doorway of the kitchen holding a bouquet of flowers.
He always comes bearing gifts before our dates: flowers, chocolates, all the stereotypical sweet things. It’s thoughtful, but right now I can’t smile. Hell, I can barely breathe.
The way the tiny kitchen is laid out, Michael can’t get to me, and I can’t get to him so long as Grant stands between us. And Grant doesn’t get out of the way. In fact, he turns and blocks me so he can look at Michael, no doubt assessing him and his flowers with a highly visible scowl. It’s suddenly too hot in here.
Michael leans to the side so he can see me past Grant’s shoulders, and he smiles.
“Hey, Tate,” he says, cheery and oblivious. Then he reluctantly looks at Grant. “Good to see you.” Which I think is big of him considering their last encounter at the stadium was awkward to say the least.
Oh my god. Get me out of here. We’re all crammed together in like five square feet of space (thank you, New York City), and though I’ve never been claustrophobic in my life, I’m currently headed that way.