Come What May

I flick her shoulder. “I don’t ever want you to be anything other than happy, pollito.”

She rolls her eyes. “Such a sap. C’mon, let’s go. We can grab some kolaches for everyone on the way!”

I quirk a brow. “Everyone who?”

“Well…” She drains the contents of her mug, hops down, and places it in the sink. “I know you asked Seraphine to lend a hand. And I might have asked Uncle Arrón and Aunt Silvi to come, too.”

I massage my temples in anticipation of the headaches I know I’ll have by the end of the day.

“Are you mad?” Desi’s shoulders slump. “You’re mad.”

“I’m not,” I assure her. “Thank you for calling in reinforcements. I guess we better get those kolaches, because that’s the only payment they’re getting.”

She laughs, and I grab the keys to my GTO.

“Can I drive?”

“Sure.” I pointedly swap the GTO keys for the keys to the truck. Both cars are expertly restored, but parts for the truck are easier to come by, so if she dings it, fixing it won’t be a total nightmare.

She pouts, but it doesn’t sway me. “The truck or bust, kid.”

“Fine.” She climbs into the driver’s seat and cranks the engine. “Let’s go!”

Twenty minutes later, Desi whips my precious truck into one of the few parking spaces in front of the garage. “Easy, Des! Easy.”

“Chill, old man. I am a perfect driver.”

“You are a menace to everyone on the road.” I’m lying; the kid is a great driver, but I can’t have that knowledge inflating her already oversized teenage head.

“Your criticisms are nothing more than a reflection of yourself.”

“Say what?” I cock my head to the side as I look at her.

Desi shrugs and kills the engine. “I’m just saying, you taught me everything I know.”

“You little shit!” I reach over the console and ruffle her hair, knowing sure-fire it’ll rile her up. She’s got her mama’s curls, and at sixteen, her hair is off-limits.

“Oh my God, stop!” She bats my hand away, laughing. “It’s gonna frizz!”

“Who cares, pollito? It’s just hair.”

“Easy for you to say—you’re gonna be bald in like a decade!”

“It’s on now!” I lunge for her hair again, but she scrambles out of the truck and hightails it into the safety of the garage.

I flip down the visor and check my hairline in the mirror. I know she was only trying to rile me up, and like the sucker I am, I played right into her plans.

After I pull the keys from the ignition and pocket them, I grab the box of still warm kolaches and head inside.

The sound of boisterous laughter greets me as I enter the building. Somehow, in the two minutes it took me to get inside, Desi, Arrón, and Silvi are playing some deranged version of hide-and-seek, while Seraphine hovers near the coffeepot, looking uncomfortable in her own skin.

Her pinched brow and hunched shoulders light up every protective nerve in me. I don’t like seeing my girl look so miserable in a place that should bring her peace.

Fuck—did I just call her my girl?

The revelation has me ready to turn around and run back to the truck. But I’ve never once hidden from a problem, and I don’t intend to start now. So what if my body yearns for her—craves her even. I am a grown-ass man who knows impulse control.

I can want all I want, as long as I don’t act.

Of their own volition, my feet carry me toward her. “Are you hungry, mariposita?” I ask, my voice low.

She glances up at me from beneath her sooty lashes and licks her lips. “I could eat.”

Dios mio, this woman! I hold the box out in front of me, as an offering and a barrier. “Kolache?”

She pops the top and moans as the smell of smoked sausage wafts upward. Camshaft, rocker arm, hydraulic adjuster, intake valve… I start calling engine parts in my head, in a desperate effort to hang on to the impulse control I was just patting myself on the back for.

“Exhaust valve and piston. Mateo, are you quizzing me again? Do I need to name some more parts to earn my breakfast?”

“Didn’t realize I was speaking aloud,” I grind out the words, caught between arousal and embarrassment. “Please, just take one.”

Seraphine gives me a questioning look before shrugging and grabbing a kolache. She takes a bite and does this happy little wiggle as she groans. “So good! Should I make some coffee?”

I glance past her to the old Bunn coffee machine. “Does that dinosaur still work?”

“That coffee maker has been in this exact spot since before I was born. It will probably survive the end of the world.”

We share a private laugh. There was a reason Dave restored his projects to period—he liked the past and largely lived in it. God knows, this shop is a testament to that.