Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Bea could smell toast, coffee, and the telltale scent of a roast incoming that had nothing to do with beans.
Claire and Lillian sat at the tiny café-style table on their apartment balcony like two cats in sunbeams; one feeling superior, one serene, both ready to pounce.
“Did you sleep?” Lillian asked mildly.
Bea sat. She split the avocado with the composure of someone defending their alibi. “Like a baby.”
Claire made a noise so derisive it could’ve curdled the oat milk. “Yeah right. I felt you tossing and turning all night.”
“Give me the highlight reel,” Lillian said, crossing her legs and settling deeper into her chair.
Claire didn’t need prompting. She was practically vibrating for her live broadcast. “It started with the car ride. He gets in, all billionairey perfect.”
And the thing was, Bea knew exactly what Claire meant. His shirt. Those biceps. His scent that had taken up residence in her brain.
“Then he taps the console with those commandant fingers and goes”—Claire dropped her voice two octaves—“Relax, little Bea.”
“That deep?” Lillian asked.
“So deep!” Claire slapped her knee. “I felt seduced, and I was in the back seat.”
“And then?” Lils prompted.
“The whole day was planned with military precision—beach for her umma, rods and tackle for her papa, pastries for Bea.” Claire ticked them off on her fingers. “Three targets, three bullseyes.”
“I think you told me last time he was a marksman, didn’t you, Bey?” Lillian asked slyly.
Bea shook her head, cheeks on fire. “You make it sound like an op.”
“There is literally no other way to describe it, and I’m not exaggerating.” Claire looked at Lillian. “Trust me, Lils. You’d have had a front-row seat to the ‘just friends’ delusion tour.”
“So it turns out Rafael is, what? Nice? Considerate?” Lillian studied her.
The avocado toast stopped just short of Bea’s mouth. “I guess so.”
“You weren’t sure before?” Claire demanded.
“I don’t know.” Bea heard the defensiveness in her own voice. “I was too busy bracing for impact every time he walked in the room. Yesterday was the first time I didn’t end up just…running.”
She’d done it so many times over so many years.
At the basketball courts. On the dancefloor. In his office at the gym. She’d get close and he’d be himself and she would flee.
Yesterday was different. He was still intense, but it settled around her instead of driving her back.
“Have your parents mentioned anything since?” Lillian asked.
“Umma sent me messages,” Bea admitted, sliding her phone across the table like it was harmless.
Claire skimmed fast, muttering under her breath. Then she froze, finger stabbing the screen. “Wait. Hold up. This one—this one.” She cleared her throat, reading with relish. “Beatriz, Papa says Rafael asked how he feels about you being in the UR.”
Lillian set her cup down with a soft click. “Interesting.”
Why did the words sound different read out loud, with emphasis, by Claire? She blurted, “He meant my scholarship at St. Ives.”
“But you’ve been here nearly three years already,” Lils said thoughtfully. “Might be a future rather than past-tense question.”
“Exactly,” Claire said, mouth full of toast. “He’s really asking, What if she stayed?”
“I was always planning to stay,” Bea argued.
Dusting crumbs from her hands, Lils gave her a look that was both sympathy and warning as she stood to bring her plate to the sink. “Sounds like Rafael’s making sure everyone’s plans match his.”
Lillian left for work with a promise to bring Thai home for dinner. Claire and Bea ambled to the kitchen to rinse their mugs. They had barely finished when the apartment intercom buzzed.
It was too early for Rafael. Which, of course, meant that it was.
Claire cupped a hand a few inches from her mouth, exhaled. Grimaced. “brB. You can knock that man dead, but I might actually kill him with this coffee breath.”
Bea quickly took stock of her own; it seemed acceptable. She gulped a glass of water for good measure, and headed for the door.
Within moments, he filled the doorway.
She shifted back a pace, pulse quickening at the sight of him. “Come in. I thought we said nine.”
He bent to untie his shoes. They looked huge lined up beside hers. His socks were dotted with tiny orange basketballs. Add adorable to the list. Like she needed more ammunition for her already-problematic attraction.
He passed the velvet armchairs, the floral three-seater, the bookshelf she’d organized by color during a recent mid-semester exam breakdown. Set a narrow wooden case on the dining table.
“We did,” he said simply. “This isn’t a pickup, it’s a delivery. From Malaysia.”
Bea eyed it. “Big case for a fridge magnet.”
His mouth tilted up at the corners. “Open it.”
The lid slid back with a soft scrape. Inside lay a dagger. A sheath of carved dark wood, a hilt glinting with mother-of-pearl. Not gaudy. Not decorative. It had the gravity of something you didn’t play with.
She lifted it carefully. The weight surprised her; it was heavy for its size, smooth and cool against her palm. She pulled it out from its sheath and the blade curved like something alive, dangerous even while it slept.
“You got me…a weapon?”
“A kris,” he corrected. “Men carry them in ceremonies. A symbol of protection.”
She peered up at him. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“You keep it.” His gaze didn’t waver. “It isn’t for you to use. It’s for you to know.”
She’d asked him for a surprise and he’d delivered as only Rafael could: something that made her nervous, that spoke louder than flowers or perfume ever could.
She eased it back into the box, pulse hammering. She needed a joke like she needed a stable internet connection. “You know normal people just bring back duty-free Toblerone, right?”
Claire appeared behind them, smelling all minty. “Whoa, cool knife!”
Life is just a series of ambushes disguised as errands.
She’d read that line in a book somewhere, and it came to mind at this moment.
A Sunday market had seemed foolproof: local crowds, fresh produce, a whiff of cultural immersion, and no conceivable way it could blow up in her face.
Until she saw Selene Griffin.
Bea’s stomach plummeted straight to her sandals. Because—
One: Rafael didn’t know she’d been having lunch with his mother every week for the past, oh, nine months.
Two: Claire and Umma didn’t know Auntie Selene was Rafael’s mother.
“Rafael, how did you say you knew about this market?” she asked, voice climbing a pitch too high.
“My mother comes sometimes.”
She hung her head. Figures.
He was beside her, sunglasses hooked at his collar, leading the way between stalls with the kind of intrinsic authority that made people part for him. One of his shadows was half a dozen paces in front, the other half a dozen behind. She didn’t think her parents or Claire had even noticed them yet.
Selene turned and saw her first, brightening. “Bea.”
“Theia,” Bea blurted, looking up and smiling gracelessly.
Rafael went very, very still.
Selene wore a fuchsia sundress and straw hat and had a basket of produce hooked on her arm. Her security detail hovered behind her watchfully.
She swept forward and kissed Bea’s cheek, perfume curling in the air. “Your Theios loved the last batch of kimchi. No milk needed this time at all.”
Rafael’s head turned toward Bea, eyes scorching the side of her face. She didn’t have to look back to know. He’d heard the Theia, the Theios, the kimchi. He’d heard everything that it implied.
She kept her eyes firmly on Selene, trying desperately to appear nonchalant as her neatly compartmentalized life imploded before her eyes.
Selene’s gaze shifted past Bea. “Ah, this must be your mother. And Claire.” She offered a hand, all warmth. “Welcome to the UR. I’m Selene Griffin.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you from Bea.” Umma wore the look she reserved for new teachers, deciding her character in a blink. Her face softened into a smile as she shook her hand. Then: “Wait…did you say Griffin?”
Rafael leaned in to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Mama.” The word reverberated. Easy reverence. A mountain bending for her.
Umma’s gaze flicked over Rafael, quick and precise, like a woman who missed nothing. Then she turned and caught Bea’s eye.
She had questions.
Behind her, Claire fake coughed, covering her laughter. Bea could feel her vibrating, the shriek of ARE YOU KIDDING ME? bouncing off her spine.
If anyone wanted to interrupt this slow-motion trainwreck, now would be ideal.
Unfazed by the chaos detonating around her, Selene seized the reins. “You’ve been guiding our book club. Those Highlander romances have been a triumph. I’ve never seen my ladies finish a book in one evening.”
Umma’s smile widened, disarmed. “They were hard to put down.”
Selene handed her basket to one of the guards, then, casual as anything, looped her arm through Umma’s. Like they’d been friends for years.
Bea trailed behind with Rafael and Claire, all three of them straining to catch every word with varying degrees of horror and fascination. Bea noticed his knuckles brush against his thigh, the smallest giveaway that he was supremely invested in this moment.
“Bea told me you’re not here long,” Selene continued deftly. “But if you have time, please come to my book club tomorrow night. The ladies would be thrilled to meet you in person.”
“Sweet mercy,” she heard Claire whisper.
Bea turned and caught Rafael biting the inside of his cheek, trying to hold a grin back.
No. No, no, no.
Her mother could not sit in that living room unsupervised.
But she already knew, the way she knew her own name, that ‘book club’ and ‘Umma’ went together like magnets and metal; there was no resisting.
“I would love to,” Umma said. Then paused, looking around. “But my husband isn’t—where is he? He must have stopped at the record stand.”
“Of course you must bring him. Leon thrives on a good debate over construction and shipping.”
Umma’s brows lifted, the faintest glint of surprise before her smile returned. Hooked, just like Selene wanted. “He’d actually like that.”
Bea’s anxiety tripled.
Papa, too?
Could she rebook her parents’ plane tickets for tonight? Would that be too obvious?
“Is your hotel in Northgate?” Selene asked. When Umma nodded, she looked over her shoulder to her son. “Rafael, bring them over by eight, sharp.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tone maddeningly calm.
His eyes found hers, gleaming. Not amusement, more like he’d just witnessed the universe deal him exactly the card he wanted.
“We can find our own way,” Umma offered politely.
Selene waved away the protest. “Nonsense. He works in the city anyway. Consider it settled.”
Bea’s nails dug into her palm so hard there would be crescents. Four sets of eyes landed on her. She smiled weakly. “Great.”
From the back, Claire was already halfway to a cardiac event, mouthing with irreverent glee: SANG. GYEON. RYE.
The Korean term for when a couple’s parents formally meet.
Bea was going to have to move countries. Again.
RAFAEL
Markets had a way of scattering people. By the time Selene pulled him aside, Bea’s papa had been lured by a rack of local handicraft, Umma and Claire were poring over a bookstall, and Bea was somewhere in the middle trying to herd them all like cats.
He stood by his mother in the cool of the shade, the scent of nectarines sharp in the air.
“You could have told me,” Rafael said at last.
He wasn’t angry, just surprised it had gone on for so long without him knowing.
“I could have,” his mother agreed. “But I promised her I wouldn’t.”
“How did it start?” he asked, sliding a hand into his pocket, finding the valet stub. Flicked it back and forth with his thumb.
“We had lunch at a café. Near her work.”
Rafael gave her a look, amused, and a little exasperated. “You went to her?”
“Of course I did.” She scoffed, as if it were obvious. “Your cousins told me about your order not to bother her after the breakup, too. That was kind of you.”
Kind? No. Necessary. Bea needed space. He’d made sure she got it.
“And she’s…fine with you being my mother?”
Her mouth quirked. “We’ve been having lunch every week for nine months. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”
The significance hit home. The two women who mattered most to him had chosen each other without his active hand in it. It was the kind of thing a man didn’t waste.
Laurent had drilled indifference into him for the boardroom. But this wasn’t business, and his mother had never held back from telling him the truth. “What do you think of her?”
She reached up, smoothed the wrinkle in his shirt. “She’s smart. Warm. Sweet in a way this city doesn’t know what to do with. Funny, too, when she forgets to be nervous.”
Each word was confirmation. From under his ribs came the urgent need to keep something he hadn’t earned yet.
“She should’ve broken under the weight on her shoulders. But she didn’t. Not because she’s hard. Because she’s soft.” Her blue eyes locked on his. “That may be exactly what you need.”
He’d known it.
Bea bent, but never shattered. She was small, but ready to fight him on the mat. She pulled back, but told him point blank when he pushed too far. Even when she ran, it was only to regroup. She’d always come back to face off again.
He forced the air from his lungs. Since he could remember, his body wanted to move faster than his mind. Every muscle urged him to close the space, seize her outright. Instead, he slid the sunglasses back into place, a shield that let him devour the sight of her openly.
She could handle him. She just didn’t believe it yet. He’d enjoy proving it—if it didn’t kill him first.
“Bold of you to invite her parents over,” Rafael said, reaching into his mother’s basket and pulling out a nectarine.
“Their daughter in another country. A man who looks at her the way you do. They’ll want to know us.” Selene adjusted her hat. “And we’ll want to know them. It’s only natural.”
“Just don’t get ahead of me, Mama.” He bit the nectarine. “She’s mine to win.”
Her smile curved, wry and dangerous. “I’d expect nothing less from my son.”