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.”