17. Erica #3
“Who hasn’t?” I snort. She’s the poster girl for the color pink and small dogs in diamond collars. Also, more to what she’s supposed to be famous for, Madison hotels are in every city.
“My brother Enrique married her.”
I look around the table at all three of them. “So there’s a hockey player, a TV producer, a telenovela star, and now a hotel heiress.”
“Should we tell her about Francesca?” Nacho asks Dante.
“Francesca?”
“Our sister,” Dante says. “She’s an actress. Her husband’s a Broadway star and a famous YouTuber.”
“There were a lot of celebrities at the wedding,” Nacho adds, like this is a minor footnote and not an entire personality trait for a family. “Oscar winners.”
“One of them was knighted,” adds Dante.
My mouth actually falls open. “What kind of family is this?”
Dante looks at me, flat, deadpan. “Crazy rich Mexicans.”
Nobody says anything for a second. Then I lose it, laughing so hard I have to push my flan to the side lest I bend over into the whipped cream.
“Emphasis on the crazy,” Jeremiah adds, delighted with himself.
By the time the check comes, Jeremiah’s leaned back with both hands over his stomach in genuine pain.
“That’s it. No more restaurants for me.” He says it to the table at large. “Not until after the tournament. Nutritionist meals only from here on out.”
“Man of discipline,” Dante says, and scrapes the dregs of melted flan sugar off his plate like he’s just happy he doesn’t have to be on a special diet.
The cousins have an early flight and a hotel across town, some overpriced room they only got because, per Nacho, the whole city’s a madhouse, no rooms anywhere, and the goodbyes take twice as long as they should, full of hugs and shoulder squeezes and Nacho telling me, with total sincerity, that he hopes to see me again soon.
Dante hugs me too, a full-body, rib-testing thing I did not see coming, and tells me it was good meeting me.
They mention something about Christmas and a gift-wrapping competition and I smile, chest aching a little because I know that won’t be in the cards for me.
“California,” Jeremiah tells them. “In a few weeks. I’ll see you both then.”
We Uber back to the Four Seasons, and Jeremiah insists on walking me home.
He refuses to hear a single word about it, and I’ve learned by now that when Jeremiah Precio decides he’s escorting you somewhere, arguing just delays the inevitable.
Plus, I’m too tired and full to sneak up to the penthouse suite and sneak back out.
“Can I ask you something?” he says, a few blocks in, hands in his pockets. “When we met on May fifth. I just assumed you lived here.”
Here it is.
“I was only ever here for my birthday trip.” True enough, technically, if you squint. “That day we met, I was actually looking for an Airbnb. I never trust the listing photos.”
Which is, also, technically true. I really was hunting for a place back in May. Just not the kind most people book.
I stop him a few doors short of my actual building.
“I’ll wait until you’re safe inside,” he says, nodding at the front door. “Just in case there are burglars.”
I bite back a laugh. There are, in fact, six burglars currently inside my actual home. They’re probably eating my cereal.
He shoos me along. “Signal me from the window.“
I just stand there on the sidewalk.
He lifts one brow. “That’s not your Airbnb, is it?”
I slump. “No.”
He knew, dangit. And yet he’s so gentle about it. Like he expected it of me and can just laugh it off.
I trudge the rest of the way, three doors down, to the converted auto shop that doesn’t look, from the outside, like anywhere a person would willingly sleep.
Outside my door, he kisses me goodnight, soft and lingering, one hand curved at my jaw like it’s found its favorite spot.
I turn for my door and he pulls me back by the wrist for a second kiss.
This one is longer. A goodbye kiss that neither one of us wants to end.
Both of us are smiling into it by the end.
“Have breakfast with me,” he says, brushing his nose against mine.
I gasp, pretending to be scandalized. “Mister Precio!”
He flushes fast, stepping back. “No, I don’t mean. I’m not implying…”
“Relax.” I bite back a grin. “I’m kidding. Also, didn’t you just declare a moratorium on restaurants?”
“It’s a team breakfast. Just a buffet downstairs at the hotel. Brooke, our nutritionist, runs it like boot camp, but there’s a grab-and-go table too, for guys who’d rather eat on the bus. Half the guys’ women come.”
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”
“No singing required.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Then I’ll have breakfast sent up to my room instead.”
My eyebrows go up. “Your room?”
“Not like that.” He gets the words out fast, hands up. “It’s a suite. There’s a living room, a tiny office space, and a small dining table. I’ll keep the bedroom door shut the whole time.” He crosses his heart. “Scout’s honor.”
I tilt my head at him. “That’s only a few hours from now. Aren’t you bored of seeing me every single day?”
He doesn’t even pause.
“I’m addicted to you.”