Graciella #2
A fitted white dress shirt replaced his oversized tee. His messy hair had become a touch more tamed, but still looked unkempt and annoyingly hot.
“What’s not good, Golds?” he asked, voice light and relaxed. His smile no longer just teased at the corners—it was on full display, and I wasn’t sure I could handle it.
This was who he was when he was relaxed?
“Not wearing underwear. You said we always have to wear them.”
“Hey!” I threw my arms up. “I am wearing underwear.”
I wasn’t, actually.
I’d run out of clean ones that morning. But I wasn’t admitting that to a five-year-old and her hot dad.
Goldie shot me a skeptical look, blonde little brows pulled together.
“I think you should check, Dad.”
Monroe let out a choking sound, doubling over.
Goldie turned to me, unconcerned with her dad, who was on the verge of passing out from a coughing fit. “Sometimes I tell Daddy I’m wearing them, but I’m not, so now he says he’s going to check,” she explained.
Oh. My. God.
I leaned down, desperate to move the conversation onto another topic—any topic.
“Golden Girl, I need to make sure your daddy knows how to act at a restaurant. Want to be our server?” Eyes that matched her father’s lit up, her smile so big her cheeks had to hurt.
“Lemme go get my play food.”
Without warning, she launched herself into my arms, knocking the air out of my chest. The moment her bare feet hit the hardwood, she ran off.
“I take back letting you watch my kid. No underwear? Seriously?”
“You gonna check?” I threw back, thankful for the expanse of marble between us.
His eyes wandered over my body, stopping at my leggings, knuckles whitening where they pressed to the counter. Monroe’s face flashed with an almost pained expression as he closed his lids.
Suddenly, the island didn’t feel as large.
“What’s all this about playing server?” he asked between clenched teeth.
Is the edge in his voice because he’s turned on or pissed off?
“You need to prove you know how to act on a date before I just let you out in the wild tonight.”
His eyes popped open, annoyance taking over his face.
“Graciella.”
“Monroe,” I mimicked. “I’m serious. This date is the kick-off to this whole thing, and if you mess it up, we will have even more work than we already do. So humor me, and show me you know how to do more than grunt and complain.”
His jaw ticked, eyes narrowed on me. Thick fingers drumming on the cool surface.
The cornerstone of our relationship was these long pauses filled with icy glares and the unspoken challenge that whoever broke first was a pussy.
“Fine,” he bit out, before—honest to god—stomping toward me. “How are we even supposed to do this? You want me to list out what I’m going to do? How will that help?” Every word came out more exasperated.
Men are so dramatic.
“I want you to show me, Monroe.”
“How the fu—”
“Role-play, pendejo. Have you never worked retail?” His large hand was warm in mine as I pulled him to the round table tucked in a breakfast nook.
Sunlight cut through the bay windows, streaking the wooden top with warm rays.
I pointed to a cream-and-navy striped chair, wondering whether he’d picked everything out for his home or hired someone. “Put your grumpy ass in it. We’re gonna pretend we’re at dinner.”
He scoffed and swatted my hand.
“If this were a real date, I’d never let you pull out your own seat,” he said, pushing me down onto the plush cushion, mumbling about being a proper gentleman as he shoved the chair in.
“On your date with Itzel, don’t try and impale her with the edge of the table,” I said, scooting back out an inch so I could breathe.
He sat across from me and flashed a rare smile.
“Nope, that move is special. Just for you.”
My body didn’t get the memo that the comment was sarcasm, and a bunch of butterflies erupted low in my stomach.
Which was stupid. This whole thing was fake. We were in his house, about to be served plastic food by his daughter.
Get. It. Together.
“Now what?” he asked with as much enthusiasm as someone getting a root canal. His arm slung across the back of the chair.
“Seriously? I thought you said you knew how to act on a date. Now would be when you’d ask me about myself.”
Nothing but a blank stare from him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I threw my hands up. “Like ask me what kind of cheese I like, so I can say. ‘My favorite’s Gouda’ and you can smirk at how clever I am for quoting the classics.”
He blinked a few times, like I’d broken his brain.
“Was that slurred speech?” He reached across the table, the back of his hand aimed for my forehead. “Are you having a stroke?”
I swatted him away. “First, how would checking for a fever confirm a stroke? More importantly, don’t you watch anything besides game tape? That line is iconic.”
His face answered for him. No.
I pulled out my notebook and flipped to the Monroe section. There were more scribbled notes than the last time I’d pulled it out in front of him. The page was littered with bullet points and crossed-out ideas.
“Make Monroe watch the classics,” I said as I wrote. “Do you watch anything besides film?”
“If it’s not film, then it’s probably Bluey I’m watching. Big Bluey household over here. Pretty sure I’ve got all episodes memorized, Golds watches ’em so often.”
My heart stopped at his smile. He did it every time he talked about his daughter. And I was struck by the realization that I liked learning more about them…about him. There was an itch behind my ribcage to learn as much as he’d share. Even things I didn’t need to know to do this job.
“Do you miss playing?” The burning question tumbled out.
Monroe’s eyes pinched at the corners.
“I just mean, you’re clearly still fit enough to play.” I waved a hand up and down his body.
He studied his hands, mouth slightly pulled down.
My stomach dipped as the silence stretched on.
“I need you to say something, or I’ll try to keep filling the silence. And I’ve got to warn you, when I’m nervous, I say outrageous shit.”
A laugh rolled out of his lips, and my pulse stuttered at the deep, rich sound.
“I think you’re a goddamned liar, Trouble. There is no way you only say outrageous shit when you’re nervous. Because that would mean you’re nervous all the time, and I don’t buy that.”
“Oh, Monroe.” I drew on the top of the table with my finger, my cheeks heated at the nickname. “Nothing I’ve said so far has been outrageous.”
A smirk bloomed on his face, his slightly unkept hair moving as he shook his head. “How is it that you started working in PR when you’re a publicity nightmare waiting to happen?”
He was not wrong. Most days, I wondered the same thing.
I shrugged. “Started in sports marketing. Took whatever position they’d give me because I knew I could work my way up to where I wanted to be.”
Too bad that hadn’t panned out.
“Now, answer the question, Monroe,” I said, changing the subject before he started digging too deep.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked away. “It’s…it’s complicated.”
For a second, I thought that was all I was getting, but then he released a breath.
“I miss being out on the ice and playing in the sense that the sport is fun. The rush of chasing down the puck or slamming someone into the boards.” His mouth lifted. “I was good as a player, but I’m better as a coach.”
“I wish I could see you play.”
Didn’t mean to say that out loud.
His eyes cut back to me. “Why’s that?”
That was a good question. One I didn’t want to unpack, so naturally I responded with, “So I can watch you get your ass handed to you, old man.”
My chest tightened when another laugh slipped out.
“That’s two laughs from you in five minutes.” I grinned. “I knew you liked me.”
“I told you, you’re all right, Trouble.”
Damn if that didn’t feel like the highest of praise.
“Is that all the practice? Talk to me about cheese and ask about my glory days?” he asked, shifting in his seat.
Shit. I need to focus.
“No, that’s not it. We also need to talk about the article about you and Itzel. There’s going to be a photoshoot and a cute story about your relationship in a few weeks, and I have to send over the answers to some questions. Give me some ideas of romantic things you’d do for her.”
Monroe balked, his response coming out fast and an octave higher than normal. “Isn’t that your job? To make all this up about the relationship? How am I supposed to know what I’d do?”