Chapter 9 #2
“What’s mi Reina ?” I ask breathlessly, as my core clenches in wanton need. How many different names has he called me so far? Each time my stomach flips, and I wonder if that will change.
His eyes close as he rests his forehead against mine, and his answer is spoken directly onto my lips. “It means ‘my queen.’”
Before I can respond, or lose my head and press our lips together like I desperately want to, I hear a door whip open. “Daddy! I found a kitten!”
“Fuck,” Sebastian whispers, squeezing my thigh before dropping it from his hand.
“I’m sorry, Mijo , but we couldn’t leave a kitten on the road. Now come inside so I can meet the woman your daughter hasn’t stopped talking about,” a woman calls.
I gasp. “Who is that? Do you have a girlfriend?”
Sebastian groans as he steps back from me, hurt evident in his brown eyes. “Seriously? Everything I just said and you still don’t believe me? For fuck’s sake, Isabella. It’s my mother.”
Shit. I feel awful. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking, Sebastian.”
I attempt to shuffle past him, but he grabs my hand.
“I’m a patient man, sweetheart. I can wait until you’re ready for me.
For us. But one thing I will not be patient about is you consistently assuming I’m a liar.
The only women in my life are all related to me by blood.
I will not stand by and let you accuse me of hiding another woman from you.
Now let’s go meet my mother, and I bet my grandmother is here, too. ”
Two minutes later, I’m standing in front of three Garcia women, lined up on Sebastian’s living room couch, and I’ve never been more nervous as he introduces me.
His mother, Gabriela, has the same smile as Sebastian, but his grandmother, Rosario, studies me with pursed lips. “ Ella tiene buenas caderas .”
“Jesus Christ,” Sebastian mutters, rubbing his hand across his forehead. “English, Abuela . It’s rude to speak in Spanish in front of others.”
I turn to him as my mouth drops open. “Why is your grandmother commenting on the size of my hips?”
“How did you know that?” Camila asks. “Are you Puerto Rican too?”
“No,” I tell her. “My family is Italian.”
Rosario scoffs, rolling her eyes. “ Italiano no es lo mismo .”
“ Abuela !” Sebastian shouts in frustration. “English!”
“No, it’s not the same thing,” I answer with a chuckle. “But I took eight years of Spanish growing up. I may not know everything you say, but I can get the gist of it.”
Except for the different terms of endearment Sebastian keeps tossing my way, it seems. As if reading my mind, he leans over to whisper, “You just wanted to hear me call you a queen in English, huh.”
I feel heat flush across my cheeks. “I actually didn’t know that one. And there’s another one you said, but I don’t think I heard you right, because it sounded like you called me an orange?”
Sebastian clears his throat, rubbing at his beard. “Oh, must have heard me incorrectly then.”
“Sebastian!” Gabriela, says with a gasp. “Really?”
“ Mamá ,” he murmurs, and I find myself smiling at the way he looks at his mother. “Drop it, please.”
“For now,” Gabriela replies, but I see the glint in her eyes. Whatever this is about, Gabriela Garcia does not plan on dropping it. “Isabella, I planned to make dinner for us. Is there anything you’re allergic to, or don’t like?”
“No. I love food,” I tell her with a smile.
“Isabella,” Sebastian growls. “We just talked about this.”
“What?” I ask, my eyes dancing between mother and son.
“That wasn’t a dig at my weight, if that’s what you’re insinuating.
I just really love food. I love trying new recipes, getting to experience new cultures.
I love learning how recipes are passed down, and how people create dishes within their families.
I honestly love experiencing new things in the kitchen. Really.”
Sebastian watches me, a soft smile growing as he listens. “Is that how you began to bake?”
“Some of it, yes. My mom and grandmother have taught me things, but as soon as they realized I was enamored with baking, they encouraged me to learn however I could. My family always supported my desire to be a pastry chef, and as a child, I took any cooking class I could find. I can cook anything, but my true love is pastries.”
“Have you ever made tembleque ?” Rosario asks.
“No, I’m not sure what that is,” I confess.
“It’s a coconut pudding, but it has a texture like …” Rosario trails off, her brow furrowed in concentration. “ Comó se dice gelatina ?”
“Jello,” Sebastian answers with a grin.
“Ahh, yes,” Rosario says with a nod. “I show you how to make.”
“Uh, now?” I ask.
“No. Now we make arroz con pollo , because Camila asked for it.” Rosario stands, grabbing Camila’s hand. “We’ll let the lovebirds talk.”
“What’s a lovebird?” Camila asks as she follows her great grandmother into the kitchen. “Wait! Daddy, the kitten is in my room! Go see!”
Sebastian looks at me and sighs. “I really don’t want a kitten.”
“Are you prepared to tell her that?” I ask pointedly.
“No,” he says with a chuckle. “Any chance you’d be willing to take one for the team?”
“I’m not part of that team, Daddy,” I tease, my voice accidentally dropping quite a bit. I step toward the stairs, but Sebastian wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me against his front.
“If you don’t want to continue calling me Daddy, I suggest you figure out a way to say it without that sexy as fuck rasp, mi Cielo ,” he whispers against my ear. “Better yet, you can call me Papi . Now get your ass upstairs.”
Daddy Sebastian does have a nice ring to it, though I’ll never tell him that. But Papi ? Why is that so sexy?