6. Graciella
SIX
GRACIELLA
BEING STRONG AND INDEPENDENT CAN LOOK LIKE MAKING A MAN DO SHIT FOR YOU. DUH.
Ari:
You got JOSH MONROE to get on his knees???
Me:
What? Like it’s hard?
It was hard.
Almost as hard as coming up with an entire PR strategy to save two careers in less than forty-eight hours. My reputation and my last shred of dignity were riding on me pulling this off. No pressure.
I popped another pepino, needing something to chew on besides my nail beds. The tang from the lime coated my mouth, offering a distraction.
The mess of papers, bathed in a halo of light from the mid-morning sun streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, taunted me.
What the old Victorian home turned studios lacked in width, it made up for in height.
The fact that I had two suitcases’ worth of stuff made the lack of space a non-issue.
Sighing, I picked one up, wincing at the extensive highlighting and notes peppering the margins. Every article, posting, and mention of Monroe for the last five years was strewn across my coffee table. None of them said a damn thing about who the man actually was as a person.
Another chunk of polish flew off my thumb.
If public relations didn’t work out, I was pretty sure I’d make it in private investigation. Obsessively jotting down notes? Check. Connecting the dots to find the big picture? Check. Dealing with men who had attitude problems? Double check.
Who are you really, Josh Monroe?
I tapped play for the hundredth time, wincing when Monroe’s voice came through the phone’s speakers.
“Mr. Monroe, how are you feeling about your playoff chances?”
“Good.”
My eye twitched, fast-forwarding to the next clip.
“Coach, any thoughts on the team’s performance?”
“Yeah.”
…That was it. That was the thought.
I hit the pause hard enough my finger throbbed, and yanked the glitter gel pen from my ear.
Ask him to speak in full sentences to prove he knows some!!!
The circled note at the bottom stared back at me. Virgencita, ayúdame. I was either delusional or brilliant. I’d bet good money Monroe would hate the plan I’d come up with.
I groaned, head falling back against the ancient loveseat my tía had added to the rental.
All 400 square feet of the place was filled with a mismatch of furniture collected from god only knew where.
The springs dug into my back. Any padding was long gone.
Which, to be honest, the lack of comfort was probably a good thing given the amount of work I’d had to do over the last few days.
“What have I gotten myself into?” I groaned as little flecks of dust floated in the sunlight.
Cafécito.
That was what I needed to survive this meeting and to try to rid the air of the musty, vacant scent. I was thankful she’d had this place available for me to crash, even if there was film coating every surface.
I padded across the weathered hardwood of the little hallway toward the kitchen. Honestly, calling it a hallway was laughable. If I lay on the floor, my head would be in the main room and my feet would be in the kitchen.
A strip of tiled counter spanned between a stainless steel sink and a narrow four-burner stove, bookended by an off-white fridge I was pretty sure was older than me.
Right as I turned on the burner, my phone vibrated in my pocket. The name of someone I’d been avoiding flashed across the screen.
“Ama, ?qué paso?” I answered, only half listening, fully distracted by the warm chocolatey scent coming from the stove. “Wait? What did my tía say?”
“Dice que your sink isn’t working.”
“It’s not.” I pinched the phone between my ear and shoulder, needing both hands to climb onto the counter.
The chill of the tiles bit into my toes as I stood on the worn surface, grabbing a mug from the sole set of hanging oak cabinets.
Because, of course, they’d be way up high in the cupboard when there was nothing to stand on.
“Pues, why haven’t you been to my home? You haven’t been over at Ariella’s either.”
I clucked my tongue, happy she couldn’t see me roll my eyes or she’d have yanked a tuft of hair at the base of my head, right behind my ear.
Chismosas, all of them. Everyone wanted to be in everyone’s business in this family. Which was why, as far as my mom was concerned, I was working remotely for the summer—for my old job.
“?Ay! I’ve barely been here a day.” I climbed back off the counter, careful not to bust my ass. “And it’s just the kitchen sink that doesn’t work. I’ve got it all taken care of.”
“Le dije that you can live conmigo.”
I bit my tongue, holding in my sigh.
“Ama, we both know living there wouldn’t be good—” A knock at the front door saved me from rehashing that conversation.
I glanced at the stove clock. Of course, Monroe was early.
“Hold on,” I yelled, holding my hand over the phone. “Madresita, I’ve got to go,” I said, and hung up before she asked who was there.
Fifteen steps were all it took to get back to the front, and he still banged three more times, rattling the frame of the outer security door.
I yanked the deep purple interior one open. “What the hell is your prob—”
“Your door is missing the deadbolt,” Monroe said, cutting me off, scowl directed at the admittedly shoddy-looking lock. “What’s the point of the thing without that?”
“Aesthetics, obviously.” The deadpan response earned me the same glare he’d given the newspaper-stuffed hole where the bolt should have been. I turned the knob and pushed the metal door toward him. “Are you going to stand out there and judge, or come inside and judge?”
He huffed, shoulder brushing mine in the narrow entry as he moved past me into my temporary living room, office, and bedroom.
“So happy to have you.” I stuck my tongue out at his back. “I see we’re in a good mood today. Perfect.”
“Are you ready to go?” He shuffled from one foot to another, looking massive in the small space with his hands shoved into his pockets. It felt like he was glaring, but I couldn’t tell.
“How do you even see? That thing is basically on the bridge of your nose.”
“With my eyes, Graciella.” He crossed his arms, testing the fabric of his shirt with his chest and biceps. And my ability not to drool. “It makes it so people don’t recognize me.”
I snorted a laugh, waiting for him to tell me the real reason.
Silence.
“Wait, are you being serious? You think that people won’t recognize you because you have a hat on?”
“Yup.”
Had the man never looked in a mirror? There was no way for Josh Monroe to go unnoticed. He was a wet dream walking. Effortlessly messy brunette hair, matching facial hair dusting his jaw, and, retired or not, he had the body of a professional athlete.
“So inconspicuous.” I rolled my eyes. “You realize your hat literally has the San Jose Stars logo on it, right?”
He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Can we get going already? We’ve got to get to Tommy’s.”
The reminder of why he was here had my pulse picking up.
“Let me just grab my things and we can go.” I scooped up all printouts, pens, and, of course, my trusty diary off the glass top of the table, shoving them into the canvas tote.
“What is all that?”
I whipped around. “Do you—Ah!”
Centimeters separated my nose and his chest. Laundry soap and pine enveloped me. Why did every hot man smell like they’d been out chopping a tree?
“Sorry…” He gripped my bare shoulders to steady me, rough pads of his thumbs hot against my skin. His brim no longer shielded his eyes.
All that broody intensity was on me.
He didn’t move. Didn’t stop touching me.
My mouth was the Sahara Desert, every drop of moisture gone.
“Do you intentionally sound pissed off every time you speak?” I managed. “Or is that like your factory setting?”
Confusion flashed through the blue pools of his eyes, creasing the corners. “I don’t sound pissed off all the time.”
“Oh, so you need your ears checked, too. Got it.”
“Do I really sound pissed off every time I talk?”
I blinked. “You’re kidding, right?”
Did he genuinely not realize the deep rumble of his tone came across as perpetually irritated? To be fair, the rasp and slight southern drawl were totally hot, just not when he barked single syllables.
I pulled away, maneuvering around the corner of the coffee table. Lying to myself that I didn’t miss the heat from his hands and shoved mine into my bag.
Tampon, De La Rosa…
“Got it.” I held up my favorite glittery pen, flipping to the section of my diary dedicated to Monroe. The page was already dog-eared and marked up.
“Does that say to ask me if I can speak in full sentences?” His breath skirted over my cheek from behind, close enough to steal mine and raise a flurry of goosebumps along my skin.
My eyelids fluttered closed, and I sucked in a few deep breaths.
I was two seconds away from leaning into him. To resting my head back against his chest and seeing what it felt like to touch him.
But I didn’t.
“Look at that, you can.” I glanced up at where he loomed, smirking at his slack-jawed expression. “Now, read this one aloud to prove it wasn’t a fluke,” I said, holding my pen up to his frown.
He batted the faux mic away, sending little puffs of blue fuzz floating between us. One of them stuck to the bit of scruff above his lip.
“I know how to make a happy face.” His mouth did the opposite, pulling at the corners. The blue stayed put.
I reached up and brushed it away, the tips of my fingers grazing his soft lips, a stark contrast to the coarse hair surrounding them. Electricity zapped between us. He froze, and I jumped back like my ass was on fire.
“Well.” I cleared my throat. “While that was a sentence, it wasn’t, ‘Teach Monroe to make a happy face and make him practice it.’” I gasped, and his frown deepened. “Oh, my gosh, can you not read either?”
“Hilarious. How’s this for a sentence?” He leaned closer, scrambling my brain. “Get. In. My. Truck. Graciella.”
I blinked, his words registering.