Chapter 19
Hennessy
“Abuela, I swear to God, if you try to feed me one more tamal, I'm going to explode right here on Mom's new couch.”
My grandmother ignores me completely, already piling another one onto my plate along with an extra scoop of rice. The woman is five-foot-nothing and somehow manages to be the most unstoppable force in the universe.
“You're too skinny,” she declares, patting my cheek with fingers that smell like masa and chili. “A man wants something to hold on to.”
“Abuela!” I groan, checking my phone again. It's already half-past six, and I need to be out of here by seven if I'm going to make it back to my place in time to get ready. “I'm not skinny, I'm average. And I don't care what men want to hold on to.”
That's a lie. I care very specifically about what one man wants to hold on to—preferably my hips while he fucks me from behind—but that's not something I'm sharing with my grandmother.
“Lies,” she says. “You dress too nicely for someone who doesn't care.”
My mom laughs from the kitchen doorway. “She's got you there, baby.”
I roll my eyes, shoving a forkful of tamal into my mouth to avoid responding. It's delicious, of course. Everything my grandmother makes is amazing, which is why I'm now going to have to squeeze into the dress I bought for tonight.
“Where are you rushing off to anyway?” Dad appears beside Mom, one arm sliding around her waist. Twenty years of marriage and they still touch each other like newlyweds. It's gross. And kind of amazing.
“I've got plans,” I say vaguely, checking my phone again.
“Plans,” he repeats, eyebrows lifting. “With who?”
“Friends.” I take another bite, avoiding his eyes.
“Which friends?”
“Dad, I'm twenty-three. I don't need to give you an itemized list of my social calendar.”
His eyes narrow. The legendary Coach Javier Vega stare that's made men cry on the hockey rink. I've been immune to it since I was twelve.
“It's a guy, isn't it?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
Mom elbows him in the ribs. “Javi, leave her alone.”
“What? I'm just asking.” He doesn't take his eyes off me. “Is it a guy?”
I take a long, deliberate sip of water. “Maybe.”
“Who is he? Do I know him? What does he do? How old is he?”
“Oh my God,” I groan, dropping my fork with a clatter. “This is why I don't tell you anything.”
“Hennessy Ximena Vega, I'm simply asking who you're having dinner with at eight o'clock on a Thursday night.” My dad crosses his arms over his chest, blocking my path to the door like some kind of human barricade.
“A friend,” I say, keeping my voice casual while my stomach does somersaults. “Just a friend from work.”
“Is it that fuckboy, Derk?”
“It's not Derek,” I cut him off, rolling my eyes. “And I told you, we only went out once.”
“Once was enough for me to know he wasn't good enough for you.” Dad sniffs, like the memory of meeting Derek six months ago still offends him personally.
Behind him, my grandmother chuckles. “Mijo, leave the girl alone. She's twenty-three, not fifteen.”
“Thanks, Abuela.” I blow her a kiss, grateful for the backup.
“I just want to know who she's spending time with,” Dad argues, turning to his mother. “Is that so unreasonable?”
“Yes,” we both answer in unison.
I take advantage of his momentary distraction to edge closer to the door, grabbing my purse from the hook and slipping out.
I barely make it back to my apartment with enough time to get ready. I've laid out three different outfits on my bed because I'm not sure which one to wear. Date. The word keeps echoing in my head as I frantically apply my makeup.
A date with Beckham Kingston. The man who's been living rent-free in my head for years. The man who fucked me senseless in a hotel room and then tried to pretend it never happened. The man who kissed me in his apartment like he was drowning and I was air.
I finally decide on a tight burgundy dress that hugs every curve and shows just enough cleavage to be interesting without looking desperate.
The hem hits mid-thigh, and when I pair it with my highest heels, my legs look a mile long.
It’s perfect and was my first choice and I don’t know why I second-guessed myself.
I'm just finishing my lip gloss when a sharp knock echoes through my apartment. My heart jumps into my throat as I glance at the clock—7:58. Right on time, of course. Mr. Punctuality.
I take a deep breath, checking my reflection one last time before heading to the door. My hand hesitates on the knob for just a second before I pull it open.
Beckham stands there looking like sex on legs in dark jeans and a fitted black button-down that stretches across his broad shoulders. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and the scent of his cologne hits me immediately—citrus and spice that makes my mouth water.
“There's no security in this building,” he says by way of greeting, scowling as he steps inside without waiting for an invitation. “I walked right in. Anyone could just walk in here.”
“Hello to you too,” I reply, closing the door behind him. “And yes, please come right in.”
He turns, probably ready to lecture me more about building security, but the words die on his lips as he takes me in. His eyes darken, traveling slowly from my face down to my heels and back up again.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word almost reverent.
I smile, doing a slow turn. “You like?”
“I really fucking want to kiss you right now,” he says, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes my thighs clench. “You're making it fucking hard to remember we're supposed to be talking tonight.”
“Who says we can't do both?” I step closer, tilting my head up to look at him. “Kiss me now, talk later.”
His jaw tightens in the way I love. “If I kiss you now, we're not going to make our reservation.”
“I'm not that hungry anyway,” I tease, reaching up to straighten his collar even though it's already perfect. “At least not for food.”
He catches my wrist, his grip firm but gentle. “Nice try, trouble. But we're doing this right.”
“Since when are you such a gentleman?” I tease, pulling my wrist from his grip and stepping back. “Fine. Let's go eat. But just so you know, this dress is easier to take off than it looks.”
His eyes darken further, his restraint working overtime. “You're trying to kill me.”
“Maybe a little,” I admit with a grin, grabbing my purse. “Where are we going anyway?”
“A place downtown called Ember.” He opens the door for me, his hand finding the small of my back as we step into the hallway. “Not too showy, but the food's good.”
The restaurant is a cozy Italian place about fifteen minutes from my apartment.
Not too fancy with white tablecloths and pretentious waiters, but definitely nicer than somewhere you'd grab a quick bite.
The lighting is dim, casting everything in a warm glow that makes Beckham look even more devastatingly handsome.
“You clean up nice,” I say as we slide into a booth tucked away in the corner. “I almost didn't recognize you without a scowl.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I don't always scowl.”
“Please. Your resting face is 'I might murder someone today.'”
The corner of his mouth almost pulls into a smirk. “Only when I'm dealing with incompetent people.”
“So…always?”
The waiter interrupts before I can respond, asking about drinks. Beckham orders a bottle of red wine without consulting me, which should annoy me but somehow doesn't.
“Confident I'll like your choice?” I ask after the waiter leaves.
“You will.” He leans back, studying me with those intense eyes. “You like bold flavors. Nothing subtle or boring.”
“You think you know me that well already?”
“I'm getting there.” He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing against mine in a touch so light it almost doesn't register.
The wine arrives, and we both take a moment to taste it. It's rich and complex, exactly what I would have chosen. Damn him. Honestly, it’s so rude how well he did that.
We order; steak for him, salmon for me before our server leaves again.
“So,” I say, setting my glass down. “How do we do this? Twenty questions?”
He shrugs. “If you want. Or we could just talk like normal people.”
“Normal is overrated. Let's play.” I take another sip, letting the wine warm me from the inside. “I'll start. Why hockey?”
“That's your first question?” He looks almost disappointed.
“What were you expecting? 'What's your favorite sex position?'”
His eyes darken. “We already covered that.”
Heat rushes to my face as memories flood back—his hands gripping my hips as he took me from behind, my face pressed into the hotel mattress.
“Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat. “Hockey?”
He considers for a moment. “I was angry as a kid. Hockey gave me somewhere to put it. Somewhere I could hit things and be rewarded for it instead of punished.”
“And you've been hitting things ever since,” I say, swirling my wine. “Angry kid to angry adult?”
“I'm not angry anymore.” He takes a long sip from his glass. “Just…passionate.”
“Right. That's why you nearly bit that referee's head off last season when he made that bad call against St. Augustine.”
Beckham's lips twitch. “You watched that game?”
“Maybe.” I shrug, trying to look casual. “My turn again. What's your biggest regret?”
His expression shifts, something darker crossing his face. “Pass.”
“You can't pass! That's not how twenty questions works.”
“My game, my rules.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “What's yours?”
I narrow my eyes. “Not letting you get away with that dodge, for starters.” When his jaw tightens, I sigh. “Fine. My biggest regret is probably letting my dad influence my college choice. I should've gone where I wanted.”
“Where was that?”
“New York. I got into NYU for their marketing program, but Dad freaked out about me being so far away.” I trace the rim of my glass with my fingertip. “Your turn. First time you got drunk?”