21. Monroe
TWENTY-ONE
MONROE
“EDGING IS CRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT, MARIE.”—@NICOLEJANAREADS
Trouble:
I’m coming over.
Me:
It’s a school night.
Trouble:
It’s summer…
Trouble:
I’ll see you at 7
Me:
I should just make you a key at this point since you insist on imposing yourself on me.
Trouble:
That would have been a perfect opportunity to use this emoji:
Trouble:
And no need. I found your hide-a-key already
Me:
Graciella! What the fuck
Trouble:
WTF*
Trouble:
I’ll let myself in
Me:
Bring your laundry…
I stared at the damn photo she’d sent in response to my last text longer than I’d like to admit.
Her smile was so wide that the corners of her mouth nearly touched her ears.
Eyes teemed with mischief. There, dangling from her fingers next to her face, popping against the dark background of her hair, was my gold spare key.
I shook my head, but I couldn’t decide if it was at how ridiculous she was or how ridiculous I was for saving the photo on my phone.
I should delete it, and the other one…
The doorbell chimed, making me jump and turn off the screen, before panic-shoving it back in my pocket.
Warmth heated my cheeks as the sound of bells rang through the house.
It was original to the home and, secretly, one of my favorite things about this place, but I could barely hear it over the blood pounding in my ears.
“I’ll get it,” Goldie yelled, her bare feet smacking the wood floor loud enough to hear from the kitchen.
“Don’t you dare—”
“Hey, Golden Girl,” Graciella’s voice cut me off before I could finish. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be opening the front door.”
The hum of the hood vent swallowed whatever Goldie said.
“Wow. A man who actually knows how to cook? Let’s release this tidbit to the press.”
She walked into the living room with Goldie perched on her hip, my daughter’s head resting on her shoulder. Golden strands spilled over Graciella’s tanned skin. I froze at the sight, wanting to add another photo like the ones burning a hole in my pocket.
“That smells amazing,” she said, eyes locked on the stove. “But isn’t it a little late to be cooking?”
“He’s making buzzghetti for you,” Goldie answered for me, arms tight around Graciella’s neck, fingers pulling at the ends of her hair.
“For me?”
She held my daughter as if this were normal for her, and it short-circuited my brain.
“You can put her down,” I blurted, both heads snapping toward me like I’d grown a second one. “She’s…uh…heavy.”
Graciella rolled her eyes. “I might not be my prima, but I can handle holding Goldie. Isn’t that right?” She spun Goldie in a circle, their laughter ricocheting off the walls and slamming into my chest like a physical blow.
“Again! Again!” Goldie shrieked with every rotation.
“Okay, you two. That’s enough.” I checked the meant I was browning, realizing I’d stared long enough to cross officially into weird territory. “Dinner’s almost ready. Goldie, go wash your hands.”
“But Dad—” she whined as Graciella set her down, steadying her until she was solid on her feet.
I gave Goldie a look, and she rolled her eyes, stomping toward the hall bathroom.
“Don’t forget soap,” I yelled. “Letting the water touch your hands isn’t washing them.”
I sensed her before I saw her, not daring to remove my eyes from the pot of water I was also bringing to a boil. A lot of good it did. From the corner of my eye, I caught two bare legs dangling off my counters. Bare feet sparkled with gold rings.
Fuck. It felt too intimate. Too normal.
“You know, it doesn’t actually boil any faster just because you glare at the water like it kicked your dog.”
I gave in and looked over. “I don’t have a dog.”
Graciella rolled her eyes. “I’ve never had a man cook for me before. I’m kind of enjoying this.”
Something thumped in my chest. I liked that I was the first. I wanted to be the best.
I want to be the only…
Goldie’s shout was a godsend, keeping me from that slippery slope.
“Gracie, look,” her little voice competed with the loud clacking sound of her plastic heels from somewhere down the hall.
“What is it, Golds?” she yelled.
I shook my head, dumping the pasta into the rolling water. “You would do that rather than go and look.”
“Oh please, you’re telling me you walk over every time? Although…” I looked over my shoulder when she hadn’t said anything more. Her head was tilted, bottom lip trapped between her teeth. “That much walking would explain why you have such a nice ass.”
“Do you even think about the shit you’re going to say? Or just go with whatever pops up first?”
“Oh, that was the filtered version of what was in my mind,” she teased.
“I can never tell if you’re fucking with me or not.”
Goldie appeared by Graciella’s side and handed her a slightly crumpled sheet of paper, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “Dis is for you.”
“This is for me?” Graciella’s smile was clear in her voice as she unfolded the crumpled piece of paper. “It’s gorgeous. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better piece of artwork.”
“Hey, I’m the one you normally give your art to.” I extended my neck to get a glimpse.
Truth was, I needed another piece of artwork like I needed a hole in the head. Goldie loved art, and every piece was special. I’d learned that the hard way one day, when she’d opened the trash and found some of her older work in it.
I’d really thought the stuff she’d made a year earlier was in the clear for getting rid of. I’d been sorely mistaken.
“Dad, you have to share,” Goldie scolded.
“How about this? We will put it up on the fridge so we can all enjoy it.”
Graciella slipped off the counter, her hand dragging down my back and sending heat sparking along my skin as she passed behind me.
“You have to tape it to the side because the magmits don’t work on the fridge.” Goldie followed close behind, grabbing the tape from where she knew I kept it in the junk drawer for this very reason.
It was all too natural—too easy to slip into feeling like Graciella belonged here.
Thatcher’s words echoed in my mind, cracking the hard exterior of my hesitation to let someone new in.
The whole situation had me so out of sorts that I completely forgot the last thing I’d taped to the fridge until I heard Graciella’s shocked tone.
“Wait, why is my fix-it list on here?”
Shit.
“You know, I kind of thought I was being hustled the other day, but it looks like the seventy thousand bedtime requests are a nightly routine,” Graciella mused from on top of the laundry room counter, legs pulled up, with that damn notebook resting against her knees.
“Oh, you were definitely getting hustled.” I tossed another one of her bright shirts into the washer. “Same way I do every night since she was old enough to speak. That girl’s always had me wrapped around her finger.”
Not the only girl, apparently…
I thumbed the lace in my hand, pushing down the sick desire to take them.
“Monroe, you don’t have to do my—”
I cut her off. “Already told you it was no big deal. When you have a five-year-old, you’re constantly doing laundry. Adding your shit doesn’t make a difference.”
And my players won’t accidentally see your underwear.
It was a ridiculous thing to worry about, but here I fuckin’ was, a load of her clothes in my washer.
“Are you sure?” She bit at her lip, eyes pinging between me and the basket I’d carried in. Then, in a softer voice, she added, “You like being a dad.”
My hand paused over the drum, a princess dress clutched in my palm. Something warm and prideful stabbed behind my ribcage at her comment. Being a good player and a good coach was nice, but being a good dad was what I really cared about.
And not something many witnessed. But she did.
“Love it,” I said, tossing a detergent pack in and closing the lid.
“Thought I’d be shit at it since I didn’t have one.
But it came as naturally as hockey did. Well, naturally might be a stretch.
One time, I panicked because her skin started lookin’ orange.
” A laugh slipped out. “Turned out I’d fed her too many carrots.
Didn’t know that was a thing, or that you had to watch out for them sticking pieces of toast up their nose… ”
Silence. Nothing but the rush of water filling the drum.
I pulled my eyes away from the dials, curious at her silence. My stomach dropped at the thought that maybe I’d shared too much, and she wasn’t interested in our lives like I’d thought.
That theory disappeared when I saw her face.
She stared at where her fingers picked at the edge of a page, but I didn’t think she was seeing them. Her shoulders rounded in, making her look small—vulnerable. Thatcher got the same way sometimes when he’d come over.
“Daddy issues?” My comment did the trick.
A bitter laugh spilled out from her pouty lips, and a hint of pink washed up her cheeks.
“Is it that obvious?”
Relief crashed into my chest that she was talking again.
I shook my head and reached for the lowball of amber liquid. I’d poured it earlier, needing something stronger than water to handle her in our space.
Our dining table.
Our bedtime routine.
“Not obvious at all.” I slid a glance her way. “The way you spaced out while tearing at your notebook seemed totally normal. Oh, and the look of disappointment and heartbreak, also very inconspicuous,” I deadpanned over the rim of my glass.
Her lips tugged up in a wry smile, those little flames back to dancing in her pupils.
My blood pumped harder. I rooted my feet in place, allowing the bite from the top of the washer pressing into my back to ground me so I didn’t close the three feet between us.
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” she said, but there was no malice in her tone.
Whiskey warmed my throat, a welcome reprieve from the emotions her smile dredged up. Those glossy lips had me thinking about practicing kissing.
With her.
The woman had to be a mind reader, or my thoughts were written on my forehead, because her pink tongue snaked out, wetting her bottom lip before she trapped it between her teeth.
Did they taste like vanilla? Cherry?
Something else entirely?