Chapter 27 Gabriel
“Cuba Libre, really?” Aly whispers, side-eyeing my glass from where she’s seated next to me at her grandmother’s dining room table.
“I don’t know what’s in it, but it’s fucking delicious,” I respond, grinning as I swirl the dark drink before taking another sip. “Pretty sure she squeezed a whole lime in here.”
“Ah, mija, look how well he eats,” Aly’s grandma coos, practically glowing with approval as she watches me finish my plate.
I have to say, this might be the easiest time I’ve ever had winning over a woman’s grandmother.
Did I know it was Aly’s grandma when I stepped out of Amber’s house next door after checking out her bathroom?
No. But the last name checked out, and when she casually mentioned a granddaughter who had just moved back to town, I put the pieces together fast.
Even if she weren’t Aly’s grandma, I still would’ve sat down, shared her rum drink, and eaten her food because I never turn down a home-cooked meal. Not ever. Especially lately.
Between late nights at work and Eden drowning in her final semester of college, our fridge has been mostly takeout containers and frozen pizzas.
And yeah, I could cook for myself—I like cooking—but it’s easier to grab something quick or, better yet, crash at Cain and Rhiannon’s, pretend I’m there only for Piper, and leave with a full stomach.
“The food’s delicious, Ms. Martinez. Thank you,” I say.
She shoots me a wink from across the table.
This is real food. The kind that tastes like love. Like family. Like someone took the time to care when they made it. And Aly’s grandma? Yeah, she seems to love me already. Though I can tell she doesn’t give Aly this same brand of effortless warmth at times, but I guess that’s just parenting.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a parent around to look after and worry about me.
Being in her home makes me miss my parents.
They were the fucking coolest. I’ve been thinking about them a lot these days.
I wonder if they’d be proud of the way I raised Eden now that she’s pretty much off on her own.
I wonder if they’d be happy that I sold the thrift store and am doing something for myself.
I hope so.
“Yes, he certainly knows how to put away food, Grandma. I wonder where it all goes,” Aly says with a laugh.
Her grandma shakes her head at her disapprovingly before turning back to me with a smile, as if I’m the well-mannered child at the table when all I can think about is fingering her granddaughter underneath her quilted tablecloth.
Across from me, Ms. Martinez’s boyfriend, Eduardo—the reason Aly said she had to move out—sits quietly, a contented look on his face.
He doesn’t say much, and I’ve figured out by now that he speaks only a little English, but what he does do is watch her grandma like she’s the best thing that ever happened to him.
He’s attentive. Small touches here and there on her shoulder, the way he refills her drink without her asking, how his hand lingers on her shoulders like it’s second nature.
And she looks…happy. Like really, genuinely settled in a way that judging from Aly’s face, she hasn’t seen her grandma like before.
I know I’m coming into this situation late, have no idea what her grandpa was like before he left Ms. Martinez, but it feels like a good situation all around.
Which—after everything I know about Aly’s past, about the three generations of women in her family who have been let down by men—might be difficult for her to witness.
That realization knocks into me hard.
Maybe she’s wondering how does someone who’s been burned so many times, hurt so badly, just…let go like this? Find someone new and believe it’ll be different this time? Let down their guard enough to welcome them into their heart and home?
And just like that, I feel like I understand Alessia better.
“Thank you for lunch,” I say, setting my fork down. “Gotta say, this is way better than what I had planned. Which was nothing. And the company’s been even better.”
Her grandma beams at me, her entire face lighting up like I’ve just made her day. I’m not exaggerating. I’m not trying to lay it on thick. But I like Aly. And by proximity, I like her grandma, too. And that means I want her to like me back for her daughter.
I stand, clear my plate and move to grab the others before Ms. Martinez can. She holds out her hand to try to stop me.
“Let me do the dishes. You made the meal,” I say. “Please.”
"Dios, mijo, what a fine young man you are,” she gushes, pressing a hand to her chest, her voice thick with approval.
Alessia sighs softly from next to me. “I’ll help you,” she says, grabbing the remaining plates and silver wear and following me into the kitchen.
The second we’re alone, she spins around to stop me.
“Oh my god, what did you slip in her drink?”
I chuckle, rolling up my sleeves as I warm the water in the sink. I know there’s a drip under here, but it shouldn’t affect washing these dishes much. I propped an empty bowl under it in the meantime to catch anything that escapes.
“Nothing. Is it really that hard to believe that your grandma likes me? I feel like I’m a likable guy. You seemed to like me a lot last night.” I shoot her a wink.
She shakes her head as her face flushes, snatching a dry dish towel from the drawer.
“My grandma has never liked any man I’ve ever talked to.
Ever. She hated my ex-husband the entire time we were married.
When I had a boyfriend in high school, she’d call my mom for daily updates asking if we’d broken up yet.
She’s a hopeless romantic when it comes to herself, but for me, she’s very critical of my partners. ”
“Maybe she’s just a good judge of character,” I say with a shrug. “Doesn’t sound like those guys were right for you anyway.”
I rinse a dish and scrub it clean, placing it on the drying rack beside me for her to pick up.
She plucks it from the rack, her pretty nose scrunches like she’s thinking about what I said. Fuck, she looks beautiful today in those tight leggings hugging every inch of her wide curves. She smells like heaven, too. Having her stand this close to me is a distraction.
“Gabriel, I don’t think you understand. She hates tattoos.” She states it as if it’s a fact before storing the dry dish in the cabinet.
“She didn’t seem to mind mine,” I counter, grabbing the next plate from the sink.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s something in the way she presses her lips together that tells me this conversation isn’t just about her grandma. She’s clearly working through something. I wonder if that something is her own feelings that have started to grow for me.
I hope it is.
“She falls too easily,” she mutters, her voice softer now, like she’s admitting something that might be true for her too. A part of her that she got from her grandma that she’s always seen as weakness. “She…” she trails off. “She’s a hopeless romantic. That can be dangerous.”
I rinse the soap off another plate and pass it to her this time. Our fingers brush. I smile. She twists her lips to the side like she knows I did that on purpose.
She would be right.
“Eduardo seems good for her.” My voice lowers, matching her tone, because I can tell we’re moving into heavier territory—somewhere deeper, somewhere she’s not sure she wants to go.
She exhales slowly as she dries the plate. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
We work in silence for a while, the quiet stretching between us while I give her space. I can practically hear her thinking, weighing something in her head as she dries each dish with careful, deliberate movements.
Then she finally asks “So, who’s her new neighbor that you’re helping?”
I hesitate for half a second, just long enough to realize I don’t want to lie to her.
But I also know the truth might stir something in her—something that has nothing to do with me but might still make her bristle or start to speculate things that aren’t going to happen.
That would never, ever happen. Because it feels like I’m slowly building trust with her, and I don’t want to fracture something that important to me.
I finish rinsing the last glass and hand it to her before shifting my stance, turning to give her my full attention now.
“My ex-wife just moved back to town,” I say evenly. “With her husband and daughter. They bought the house next door to your grandmother. Didn’t know that until she called me an hour ago unexpectedly.”
Aly’s brows shoot up. “And she… reached out to you… why?”
“For help. She has some sort of renovation project she wanted me to look at and come up with an estimate.” I lean a hip against the sink, assessing her reaction.
Her brows raise even higher.
“She wants you to work on the project?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Her eyes narrow. “Wow. She couldn’t have found anyone else to do that? I mean, it certainly seems like…” She doesn’t finish. “Never mind.”
“Don’t,” I tell her.
“I didn’t say anything.” She turns her attention to the dish towel, drying the glass with the precision of an architect.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“How could you possibly when I’m not thinking anything? My mind is totally blank right now. Not a thought in my head.”
“Alessia.” I step in closer, close enough that I can see the way her throat bobs when she swallows hard, the way her grip tightens around the cup to the point where it's about to crack. I reach out, gently tipping her chin up until her eyes meet mine. She lets out a sharp breath—more of a gasp, really—her eyes widening as if it startled her that I’m touching her.
And suddenly, I know where this is coming from. This closed off reaction. Her tone. Or at least, I think I do. She’s jealous. Over my ex-wife. Over something that means absolutely nothing to me. Over a woman I don’t ever think or care about.