Home > Come What May(8)

Come What May(8)
Author: L.K. Farlow

Desi shrugs. “Don’t be. I mean, yeah, it sucks and all, but I know she loved me.”

“Right. Yeah.” This girl has me at a total loss for words. “That’s… um…”

She shakes her head at me, a small smile playing on her lips. “C’mon. If we’re lucky, Dad will make huevos revueltos a la Mexicana.”

“Eggs?” I ask lamely.

Desi nods. “Yeah, but better.”

She takes off down the hall, but I hesitate. “Hey,” I call after her.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” I shrug, unsure of how to properly thank someone for doing what she did. “For… you know.”

“No worries; us girls gotta stick together, right?”

“Right.” Desi nods, her lips tipped up in a knowing grin. “Good. Now, let’s eat.”

She turns and heads down the hall—presumably toward the kitchen. I take my time following after her, needing a few minutes to get my wits about me before facing Mateo.

I pause just before the threshold at the sound of Mateo’s voice. “What’s got you grinning?” I hear him ask.

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.”

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