Chapter 9
Celeste
His kitchen is gorgeous. I could see it from the living room, but I was way too distracted by Hermes and Daisy to really look.
There’s a center island with plenty of room for prep, a six burner stainless steel stove that has two ovens underneath, and a microwave drawer.
Gleaming white countertops pop against dark grey cabinetry, while sunlight streams in from the two large windows and glass paneled backdoor.
White subway tiles line the backsplash and blend seamlessly right into the counters.
Everything looks modern and state of the art without seeming stuffy.
He keeps it spotless with only a couple of personal touches.
There’s a picture on the counter of Gage with a woman who must be his abuela, both of them bent over a stove and smiling.
On the fridge, a handful of cute drawings clearly done by a child or children are proudly on display with magnets in the shapes of parrots.
Does he have a kid from some previous relationship?
I know he hates the idea of marriage, but am I possibly getting into a situation where I’d be a step-mom?
“My niece and nephew, Wayne’s two kids, love to draw for me. Their names are Ava and Braden. I would be disowned by them if I didn’t hang them up, not that I don’t want to show them off anyway,” he says, clearly reading my panicked face as I look at them. I almost sag from relief.
“Please don’t mistake me, I like kids. I’m having enough trouble wrapping my head around a marriage though, let alone becoming a step-mom. I’ve never wanted to have my own kids after the way I grew up,” I explain. Not that I need to explain myself.
“Same,” he says simply. “I love my niece and nephew with all of my heart, but being an uncle is plenty for me.” I frown in confusion.
“You’re not looking to have heirs to carry on the El Abrevadero legacy someday down the road?”
“Fuck no. I work so much, and I need my free time to not be filled with soccer tournaments or playdates or children’s birthday parties.
That is not my scene at all. I’m certainly not going to ask the mother of these hypothetical children to do all of that on her own.
Wayne’s kids can carry it on, or my cousin Diana’s future kids since I know she wants them.
She loves the bar almost as much as I do, and I know she’d pass that on.
As long as it’s still in the family.” Shock pulses through me, not at his words, but at the fact we both feel the same about having kids.
I nod mutely in acknowledgment, not knowing what to say in response.
“That got a little heavy, sorry about that,” he mumbles self-consciously, rubbing the back of his neck.
“It’s fine. Refreshing even, to hear someone else feels the same way as me about having kids,” I tell him honestly, since I don’t like seeing him self-conscious.
My eyes avert to the slutty, delicate silver chain around his neck, and the green button down that so closely matches the shade of my dress.
He’s not beefy muscular, but he fills out the shirt in a way that can only be described as delicious.
His rolled up sleeves reveal drool worthy corded forearms decorated in abstract patterns of black ink.
The urge to push the stray dark lock that is curled onto his forehead back into his tousled hair is so strong I move my hands behind my back.
A sound of agreement from him snaps me out of my ogling, and not a moment too soon.
He looks at me knowingly with a small tip up of his lips, starts pulling out plates and glasses, grabs the salad and dressing from the fridge, and I take my cue that we’re moving on from that topic.
The food is a gorgeous feast, and he made enough to feed a small army.
I help him carry everything to his table in the breakfast area, moving around each other easily, like I’ve assisted him in the kitchen a hundred times.
We sit across from each other as we pile fresh salad, chicken, and rice on the plate.
The smells alone are making my mouth water.
He pours us water from his Brita pitcher, and uncorks a bottle of white wine as we sit down to eat.
Looking at the label, I see it’s the same wine I ordered last night at the bar.
“You seemed to really enjoy it, so I thought it would be a safe bet when I ran out to the store today,” he explains with an all too casual shrug when I ask him about it.
The warmth that fills me knowing he paid attention and remembered flares through the center of my body all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. There’s also trepidation.
Not many people have ever taken care of me like this, and when they did it was usually to gain something or use it to hurt me.
It’s hard for me to trust it, and I feel myself wanting to fidget.
Gage has never been anything but nice, and I’d like to be able to trust him.
If he tries anything though, or says that making me dinner, and getting a wine he knows I like means I owe him something, I’m bolting.
We settle into easier topics than we were talking about earlier.
The dinner is incredible, and I tell him so.
I never knew something as simple as chicken and rice could be so flavorful.
He promises to give me the recipe and walks me through the bare bones of how he made it with so much passion.
I ask him how long he’s had his birds. Six years, he informs me.
He adopted them from a woman who rescues them and rehabilitates them.
Hermes lost his owner suddenly and was neglected by the rest of the family, who had no idea what to do with a bird as smart as him.
Daisy’s owner gave her up to the rescuer voluntarily when it turned out her home was not the right place for her.
The owner’s cat became vicious and made Daisy incredibly anxious.
He adopted both of them from her at the same time.
“The woman who rescues them does great work,” I remark. He nods emphatically.
“She’s a legit bird whisperer, and has been incredibly helpful.
When I had trouble with Hermes plucking out his feathers, she told me exactly what to do to help keep him mentally stimulated, like working with him on tricks, the best toys for him, and learning more words.
Hormone treatments also helped. The feathers grew back after a few months, and he’s been great since.
” I can hear Hermes and Daisy flying around and playing in the living room, while Gage is facing them so he can keep an eye on them in the open concept space.
My heart can’t help but squeeze at seeing what an adorable bird dad he is.
“They obviously lucked out getting adopted by you,” I tell him sincerely.
If I had any lingering worries about whether coming to see Gage alone is safe, they’re all but gone.
Tania and Carlo know I’m here if anything were to happen, but they also could not hold back their excitement that I am hanging out with Gage.
Between their endorsement, and how good he is with his birds, I don’t think I’m in danger.
His face goes completely soft, and a dimple pops with how widely he grins.
All of the charm I see him use to work his bar and win over customers is solely focused on me, and it’s as though I’m caught in a magnetic ray that’s pulling me into his orbit.
“That means a lot, thank you,” he says warmly. I nod and duck my head to spear another forkful of chicken into my mouth, so that I can avoid looking at that dimple any further. I’m not in any position to start getting super attracted to my potential husband of convenience.
We eat in companionable silence for a little while, stealing glances over our drink glasses or while we think the other isn’t looking.
There’s the occasional idle conversation about my work at the diner, and his funny stories about the bar among the sounds of clinking cutlery and his birds chattering.
We’re circling each other cautiously, waiting for the right time to get to the main reason we are meeting up tonight.
“I’m not much of a baker, but there’s this bakery not far from here that makes the most incredible Dubai chocolate cookies. I bought them while I was out today if you’re in the mood for dessert,” he says as we start to clear the dinner dishes from the table.
“I’ve never had Dubai chocolate anything, but I’ve seen it all over the place. I’d love to try them.” I go to start washing the dishes, but he shakes his head, moving closer to gently pluck the plate from my hand and placing it back into the sink.
“Don’t you dare, I’ll take care of those later,” he says playfully with a bump to my shoulder.
“You cooked this incredible meal and bought amazing sounding cookies! Please let me help do the dishes,” I insist. He looks mulish, but then seems to relent.
“I didn’t invite you here to put you on dish duty, so how about we get it done together?
That way we can have cookies sooner,” he concedes with a wink.
The work goes quickly with me washing and rinsing, before handing it all to him to either load the dishwasher or dry with a towel.
When it’s all done, he goes into one of the big cabinets off to the side that must act as his pantry before emerging triumphantly with a white bakery bag.
“If you don’t like these, I may have to rethink our friendship,” he teases before handing me a gorgeous cookie that smells like heaven.
We both lean against the counter as we start to eat.
A sprinkle of chopped pistachios sits on top for some crunch, along with a chocolate drizzle, and then I get a hit of the most deeply flavored chocolate cookie I’ve ever tasted when I bite in.
The signature pistachio cream filling I’ve read about takes it over the top in the best way.
It’s the best damn cookie I’ve ever tasted.