Chapter 4
SEBASTIAN
“ Y ou gonna go check on your girl?” Trace asks me as I grab my keys and helmet from the bar. He gives me a knowing look as he takes a slow sip of his draft.
“She’s not mine,” I mutter as I stalk past him.
“Not yet,” he calls after me.
As I enter the parking lot of my bar, Range Roadhouse, I strap on my helmet and throw a leg over my Harley.
I don’t often ride my hog to the bar, but after a few weeks of forecasts for thunderstorms, I knew I needed to feel the wind against my skin on the first sunny day.
Colorado is known for having three hundred sunny days per year, so when we have extended periods of clouds and rain, I get moody.
My bike immediately brightens my disposition.
Range Roadhouse is located about twenty-five minutes from Eternity Springs.
While I haven’t told Trace where I’ve gone for lunch each day, he’s too damn perceptive not to figure it out.
I was furious after depositing Isabella at home that day a few weeks ago.
I saw how easy it would be to break into her apartment complex, and how blissfully ignorant she was to anything going on around her.
I want to pick her up and lock her away, protecting her how I see fit.
Isabella won’t even let me take her on a date, so I think if I attempt to protect her, she’ll be pissed about it .
She doesn’t know that I’m the customer who has the massive standing order every week. While I think she’ll be upset about that one, she’ll get over it. The thing that she’ll definitely be murderous over — should she ever find out — is the fact that I own her bakery.
In my defense, I purchased it around the same time Isabella began working there.
I intended to sell it to her, but she seemed content to continue paying the rent.
Norma Klein, the previous tenant, made me swear I wouldn’t raise the rent on Isabella; as if I’d do that to the sister of some of my best friends.
I only raised the rent to be on par with other businesses on the same block.
I own an LLC, and the bakery was purchased under that.
No one in the Santo family knows I own it, and I plan on keeping it that way.
I got into the commercial real estate world in my mid-twenties, recognizing it as a perfect opportunity to invest. My research found that commercial real estate allowed more financial reward than residential properties, and after hearing horror stories about the rental market in Colorado, I was more determined than ever to slowly increase my reach in real estate.
I started small, grabbing compact spaces on the far western side of Denver.
A hot dog shop and a small ice cream stand were immediate hits.
My first big foray into a standalone space, Range Roadhouse, continues to be my favorite.
The bakery is the only retail location I own in Eternity Springs, and no one outside of my family and very close friends know that the company who owns the space, SGI, is me. Sebastian Garcia Incorporated.
Slowing to a crawl, I ease down the main drag of Eternity Springs.
It’s as if every other building falls away into the background as I zero in on Bake, Batter, and Bowl.
I smile to myself, loving the ingenuity and creativity of the name.
Creeping past the bakery, my eyes strain to find her through the windows, but someone else stands at the helm.
Disappointed, I turn around, intending to head back out of town .
And then I see her.
She’s by the main square, sitting on a bench with her head tipped back, a soft smile on her face as she enjoys the sun. A parking spot opens near her, and I quickly slide in. Even from here, I can see flour on her cheek again, and I chuckle.
Turning off my bike, I’m surprised the sound hasn’t registered in her brain, but it gives me an opportunity to study her for a minute before quietly walking over to sit beside her. “Lovely day for lunch outside.”
Isabella gasps, jolting with an exaggerated kick of her legs, and she lets go of her lunch. I watch helplessly as a large slice of lasagna hits the concrete. Stormy eyes focus on me. “I was really looking forward to that lasagna, Sebastian.”
Fucking hell. The way my name sounds on her tongue makes my cock twitch. Clearing my throat, I attempt to focus my thoughts. “I sincerely apologize. I thought you heard me sit down.”
“You could have been anyone,” she retorts, annoyance evident in her posture as she stands. “Normal people don’t speak to strangers on a park bench.”
“That’s probably an incorrect generality, but I digress,” I reply, and Isabella growls at me. She legitimately growls. “I’m just saying people talk all the time. I’m sure new conversations between strangers happen on park benches all over the world.”
“Well, fortunately for me, this conversation between strangers is over,” she snaps as she bends to pick up her Tupperware container, and her ass is right in my face.
Right in my face, and I force myself to stifle a groan.
Tight legging material covers every inch of her skin from her knees to her waist, but I can almost feel her soft skin.
Taste her pussy. My hands itch to reach out and grab her, to pull her down into my lap so she feels what she does to me, and that’s when I notice the outline of her thong.
Sweet motherfucking Christ, Isabella wears thongs .
I’m an ass man, but I don’t have a specific type.
I like ‘em all. I also don’t care what a woman covers herself with.
Style, fabric, cut, whatever. But the thought of a tiny sliver of lace disappearing between her cheeks?
I’m immediately rock hard, sitting on a park bench, in the middle of Eternity Springs.
As she attempts to stalk away, I reach out and lightly grab her wrist, before hoarsely saying, “Isabella, wait.”
“For what?”
I take a moment, willing my dick to calm the hell down, before speaking. “I owe you lunch.”
“It’s fine. I have another slice at home, and I can eat it for dinner.”
Adjusting myself discreetly as I stand, I gently turn Isabella toward a small sandwich shop I know she likes. “While I know I’ll never be able to replace what I assume is your Nonna’s lasagna, I can at least get you a sandwich. Isn’t today the day you stay late to prep for the weekend?”
Her eyes widen as she shoots a shocked glance at me. “How di — how did you know that?”
Because mine is of the orders she preps on Thursday afternoons. “Luca has mentioned it. He’s pretty proud of you. Talks about you all the time. Dom and Alex do too.”
I see a subtle pink sheen cover her cheeks as she fights to withhold her smile. “They just like the free baked goods.”
I stop her immediately.
“What?” she asks.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Why do you write off any compliment? Is it all compliments, or just ones from me? That wasn’t even from me, though. It was from your brothers. So tell me why you do it.”
“It was a joke.” Isabella crosses her arms, staring at me defiantly. God, I fucking love the fire she has inside her that no one but me appears to see. “I’m allowed to make jokes about my brothers.”
“Not at your own expense. You’re fucking phenomenal at what you do, mi Ciel o. Own that shit. Don’t apologize for having a gift.”
“It was a joke about how much food they can eat, Sebastian. Not about my product.” Her eyes narrow as she catches on to what I said again. “And stop calling me that. I looked it up, and I’m not your fucking sky.”
Oh, but you are.
I chuckle as I place my hand on the small of her back, gently pushing her to walk beside me into the sandwich shop. “We’ll see about that.”
After grabbing two sandwiches, Isabella hastily mumbles her thanks before scurrying back to the bakery. I watch her go, noting how she attempts to look back at me quickly. As soon as she sees me watching, her head whips around again. I chuckle as she rushes through the bakery’s front door.
New Lovebirds?
Anyone who has lived in Eternity Springs for longer than a minute knows we’re now down to only two Santo siblings who haven’t found love yet.
Or maybe only one? Our own baker extraordinaire, Isabella Santo, was seen chatting amicably with her brother Luca’s bestie, Sebastian Garcia, over lunch in the park.
Has Sebastian finally figured out how to lock down his love interest, or is Isabella just being friendly?
We have it on good authority that Ms. Santo holds quite the grudge, and Sebastian should hide the glitter if something goes awry in their budding relationship.
After finishing my inventory at the bar, I head home with the sun and wind feeling perfect against me.
Contrary to what most people believe, not every MC President lives at the clubhouse.
I’ve chosen to live in my own home, because I need my own space.
My property abuts to the Club property, which is incredibly convenient when I’ve had more than a couple of drinks.
The guys know not to just show up at my house. It’s basically an unspoken rule, although some of them try to get prospects to break it on occasion. Once they know about Camila, however, they understand why.
“I’m home!” I shout as I walk in through the garage door, dropping my things in a decorative bowl beside the door, and toe off my shoes.
“In here, Mijo ,” my grandmother calls. At eighty years old, Rosario Garcia is as spry and outgoing as the day we landed in Florida.
In order to make ends meet, my parents worked multiple jobs.
My abuela was the one who raised us, helped with homework, took us to school, and worked on school projects with us.
In turn, we helped her with learning English.
While we mostly speak English nowadays, certain words, like Mijo , have stood the test of time.
“Hi Daddy!” A blur launches toward me, and I grunt as I stumble back against the counter.
“Hello, Camila,” I reply as my beautiful five-year-old daughter stares up at me, eyes sparkling. She may not have been expected, but taking on the single dad role has been an absolute joy.
I meant what I said about my world tilting when I saw Isabella for the first time.
But that didn’t mean I remained celibate.
Camila was the result from a one-night stand, and her mother didn’t want to be in her life.
There were some thinly veiled threats in an attempt to extort money from me, which didn’t fly.
Her mother, Beth, had no desire to be a mom.
The pregnancy definitely wasn’t planned, and one of my swimmers got through the condom.
I, however, took to Camila immediately, and haven’t regretted one moment since.
With dark brown hair and tan skin, she also has my nose and eyebrows.
Striking blue eyes are the only trait she took from her mother.
“Daddy, Abuela doesn’t like the microscope you got me for my birthday,” Camila pouts.
“And why is that?” I ask.
“I made her look at an ant.”
“Ahh,” I sigh. “Did you find a dead ant, or did you kill it first?”
“It was in the name of science!” Camila shouts, her finger pointing as she shoots her arm into the air. Where the hell she learned the saying, or the gesture, I’ll probably never know. Taking my daughter’s hand, I pull her into the living room, where Abuela sits on one of my couches.
“She said it was a girl bug,” my grandmother snaps. Girl bug?
“Ladybug, Abuela . Ladybug,” Camila corrects cheerfully.
Abuela shrugs. “Same thing, no?”
I fight to hide the smile threatening to break free. “I don’t believe there is an insect called a girl bug.”
“She screamed,” Camila tells me.
“Oh? Why would a ladybug be any different than an ant? Both insects. Both bigger under a microscope.”
“Do you know how big ant eyes are? And it looked like it had hair!” Abuela whispers, her own eyes wide. “No more microscope.”
“Alright. Camila, save the microscope for me or Abuelita . Better yet, Abuelito . He will help you find more insects, I suspect.” My parents don’t spend as much time with Camila as my grandmother, but they’ll both be more patient about bug eyes.
“What am I supposed to do after school then, Daddy?” Camila whines, a sullen expression on her face as she follows me back into the kitchen.
I sigh as I pull out the ingredients to make arroz con gandules , a rice and peas dish that Abuela taught me to make when I wasn’t much older than Camila.
“There’s a swingset in the backyard. You have an entire cabinet full of craft supplies, and two shelves of books.
Your room looks like a Barbie factory, and if Abuelita buys you any more Legos, you’ll be able to cover an entire wall. ”
“I don’t like the big Legos, Daddy. I want the little ones,” she pouts.
Crouching so we’re eye level, I cluck her under her chin. “But with the big ones, you and Abuelita get to build towers so tall that even I can’t knock them down.”
Camila giggles. “ Abuelito can’t jump that high. Will I be able to jump higher than you when I’m a grown up?”
“I’m sure if you set your mind to it, you can do anything you want, mi Chiquita ,” I tell her fondly. “Now go ask Abuela nicely if she’ll help cut the plantains for tostones .”
“Oh!” Camila squeals. “I love tostones !”
Who doesn’t love a fried plantain?