I won’t let it be any other way.
4
Angel
We’re just ahead of the storm when we reach my brother’s house. I jump off the bike and give my helmet to Deacon.
Smoothing my hair back, he leans down to kiss me again, flooding my body with warmth. “I should walk you to the door.”
Reaching up, I thread my finge
rs in his thick, dark hair. “Soon.”
“Saturday.” His blue eyes glow in the darkness, and I want to tell him he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. He always has been.
Instead I tell him goodnight. “Go now. Before the rains starts. I’ll worry until you get home.”
He rarely rides a motorcycle. It’s too hot most of the year, and his Audi is plush and air conditioned. But tonight, it was perfect for our clandestine affair. Except when I say goodbye at this hour, when it’s starting to rain.
I’ve broken so many rules to love him—I broke my promise, I hid him from my family… I hate feeling like judgment is lurking around the corner, hanging over our heads. Valeria will love him if she gives him a chance. Lourdes does.
Beto should… I can’t think about that now.
“I’ll text you when I get there.” He leans down for another, hot kiss, and my fingers tighten on his slick leather jacket.
He exhales a groan, the muscle in his square jaw flexing attractively. “I hate saying goodbye. I want you in my bed.”
He’s so damn fine in the darkness, that surge of need filters into my stomach. I swear, he’s right. We could be together all night and still not be satisfied.
Reaching out, I place my palm against his warm cheek. “Saturday, right here at this house, everything is going to change.” For the better, I pray.
It’s enough, and he pulls me into one last, consuming kiss. My body is so small against his, covered by him. I want to thread my fingers in his hair again and hold him all night, but I don’t dare. He needs to go, and I need to get inside and sleep.
He walks the bike to the end of the driveway, giving me one last wave, one last panty-melting grin before he races off into the darkness.
I’ve got less than two days to lay the groundwork with my brother. Less than two days to figure out how to tell Valeria I didn’t keep the promise I made to her eight years ago… Did she really think I did?
Less than two days to try and discern if bringing the love of my life to meet my family is going to lead to World War III… and what I’ll do if it does.
The tiniest noise seems to echo in this enormous stone house. I slip off my sandals to keep from making a sound as I scamper through the grand entryway. When my bare feet touch the smooth stone floors, I think of how proud Beto was when we arrived, telling me they were genuine travertine, beautiful and smooth, and imminently durable.
It’s dark as I pick my way through the open floorplan, and the rain grows stronger. I pray Deacon is still running ahead of the storm as I make my way across the first floor.
I’m unfamiliar with the layout of this giant place. I have no idea if my brother’s bedroom faces the street or if it faces the lake. Hell, for all I know he could’ve been looking down at us the whole time… That’s a creepy thought.
A stairway leads from the kitchen, which is all stainless and stone, and I follow the steps curving up like something out of an old castle.
Chairs covered in cow hide patters, heavy leather sofas with brass studs, and chunky wooden tables fill the rooms. Paintings of horses and cattle drives are on the main walls. It’s a beautiful place, if not very warm.
My room is cozier than the rest of the house. Instead of stone, the floors are dark wood with a thick white rug covering the walk from the door to the queen-sized bed. It’s made up in red-orange with cream pillows.
“I remember when you were little your favorite colors were the sunrise.” Beto had said when he showed me the room.
He was almost hospitable, and I felt guilty for thinking he couldn’t be nice. He cares enough to decorate my room in colors I like.
I hung Mamá’s black cross photo above my bed. It’s the one thing that helps me feel like she’s still with me, even after all these years.
Her smaller prints are in the albums, but this image she blew up and stretched like a canvas. It’s very similar to an O’Keefe painting, even though it’s a photograph. I’ve spent the last year trying to create something of my own to compliment it.