Graciella
FOURTEEN
“HE’S MAKING ME MISS MEN AND THAT DOESN’T SIT RIGHT WITH ME.”—@READWITH.ARI
Me:
The article is going out today
Monroe:
Okay.
Me:
God you’re like talking to a wall
Monroe:
This isn’t really talking by the way. You’re texting me.
Me:
Another tell that you’re geriatric
Monroe:
Is that all you had to tell me? That you’re doing your job and I’m old?
Monroe:
And I’m not old. I’m only 33…
Me:
You spelled out btw…
Monroe:
***
Me:
Exactly.
“You’re not wearing that to the dinner,” I said, pushing past Monroe when he opened the door to his home.
I’d stressed about this damned date—hell, this relationship—since Itzel agreed to the sham. Imagined all the ways it would epically fail and ruin both my career and a fifteen-plus-year friendship.
“No, please, Graciella, make yourself at home. Don’t let me stop you,” Monroe grumbled, massaging his temple.
“Don’t mind if I do,” I threw over my shoulder, already ten steps inside. Ignoring his irritated sigh and the thud of the door closing, too busy taking in his space.
The same frame from his place in Dallas sat on the entry table, a sweet photo of Goldie perched on his shoulders with a foam finger half her size.
They both had wide smiles, and my heart clenched.
I traced the smooth silver edge of the frame with my finger, resisting the urge to trace Monroe’s lips instead.
His Dallas house was modern, with polished surfaces.
At least that was what it’d looked like from the doorway.
This place had the older San Jose charm I loved.
Cream-paneled walls with matching trim framing the doors and windows.
Warm rugs lay in the entry and under the furniture in his living room.
Even with moving boxes still stacked against the walls, the house felt settled—lived in.
The lingering notes of cardboard were overpowered by the crisp, airy scent of fresh laundry. Somewhere down the hall, the faint rumble of a washer or dryer sounded.
“If you’re done complaining, let’s get back to the issue at hand,” I said, giving Monroe an unimpressed look that was a complete lie.
His outfit might not be date-appropriate, but he looked damn good in it.
“You’re currently in athletic shorts smaller than my bank account.
Like, I’m positive if you make any sudden movements, a ball will pop out. ”
Monroe rolled his eyes, a touch of pink at the tips of his ears and followed behind me, eating up the distance faster than I could create it. “I swear you don’t think about the things that come out of your mouth.”
I think about things I want to come in my mouth…
“If you’re done complaining about the length of my clothes, then maybe we can acknowledge the fact that it’s—” He looked at his watch, which was unnecessary. I knew how early I was. “Three-thirty, and you’re not supposed to be here until—”
“Four,” I cut him off with the wave of my hand.
And I wanted to see him.
I shoved the thought out. Aged wide plank floors creaking as I moved from his entry to his living room without being invited. The chismosa in me couldn’t be contained. This might be the first and last time he allowed me in.
I was taking full advantage of it.
Soft light filtered in through the two sets of French doors along the back wall. The paneled glass offered a glimpse of climbing vines on a trellis. I stepped closer, needing to know if it was as secret-garden-esque up close as it appeared from afar.
Wow.
The sweet, almost honey and vanilla, scent of jasmine filtered through the closed doors.
Little white, star-shaped flowers dotted the vines covering every part of the patio, creating a canopy of green and white.
Zig-zagged across were tiny lights that must have been gorgeous when lit.
Terracotta pots filled with colorful flowers surrounded each post.
It was impossible to fight off my smile when I spotted a massive swing set and pale-pink playhouse in the middle of the trimmed lawn.
A bright-pink bike with matching tassels was parked by the outdoor sofa, and a small helmet, with a massive tiara attached, lay on the cushion next to a butterfly net.
There was evidence of Goldie all over. Images of Monroe running around trying to catch monarchs at his daughter’s request filled my head.
My cheeks hurt from how wide my smile was.
“You did something nice for me.”
I jumped when his breath skimmed my shoulder. I’d gotten so lost in imagining daily life in the Monroe household that I hadn’t heard him close the distance between us.
All the distance between us.
My shoulder bumped his chest when I tried to turn. He didn’t move, just looked down at me expectantly.
“What are you talking about? I wouldn’t do that,” I lied, trying not to let him know my heart rate was spiking thanks to him lording over me.
He makes me nervous because he’s essentially my boss, and I want to do a good job. Not because he’s wildly attractive and I’m tempted to see if I can wrap my two hands around his biceps…
“Liar.” His warm chest pressed against my folded forearms. “The article…you told them what I said to you in the hall.”
I shrugged, nerves rising higher the longer he stared. “All I did was give them a quote from you.”
“That’s all?”
Shit. I cleared my throat. “Yup, that’s it. I am not responsible for anything else...”
He rolled his eyes, matching my stance. “You know nothing about the anonymous source close to coach Monroe.” He used air quotes. “Who leaked my donations?”
“Wow. Look how lucky we are that we finally get a leak that’s positive for you. Crazy someone knew about you giving money to the Women’s Sports Foundation and the Women’s College team.” I smirked. “And that title, Josh Monroe—Youngest Coach to Win the Cup—and Just Getting Started. Catchy, right?”
He shook his head, but I swore there was that ghost of a smirk again.
“Funny, because I’m pretty sure you were the only one I told about that after the ladies all left…” he said, letting the implication hang between us. Adding to the already growing tension.
I shook my head, a tinge of pain radiating from where I bit my lip.
“I don’t think you did. I don’t remember you sharing that with me.
So it can’t have been me.” I shrugged, now positive he was smirking.
My stomach looped down low at how good he looked when he did it.
I stepped back, needing some room to breathe.
“Anyway, it’s a good thing I got here early. Look at how you’re dressed.”
“I wasn’t going to wear this.”
“Well, what are you going to wear? Because I’ve never seen you in anything remotely close to nice. It’s always athletic clothes with hats pulled down to your chin—”
“I wear suits.”
I rolled my eyes at the pathetic counter, pointer finger finding the edge of my polish. “To hockey games, because they are required. Were you going to rock one of those tonight?”
He frowned, and I gave him a cocky “told you so” look.
Monroe stared at me for a few seconds before leaning down. “Fine. I’ll go change and see if you approve,” he said in my ear, breath tickling my skin. “Oh, I like the purple today.”
He pulled away, walking toward a hallway off the living room I’d missed.
My finger stilled where I’d been picking, pulse hammering in my throat loud enough that he could surely hear it.
Why was his noticing the color on my nails hot?
“Lay off the cologne while you’re at it. It smells bad, and you use too much.” I yelled the lie at his retreating back, needing to regain some sense of control.
He laughed.
An honest-to-god laugh, and my eyebrows nearly launched off my forehead.
“You’re full of shit, Graciella.” He threw a middle finger over his shoulder before disappearing.
I forced my feet toward the kitchen.
“You’re here to work, keep your chonies on,” I mumbled, opening cabinets to find a cup. Maybe water would cure my thirsty-bitch-syndrome.
“What are chonies?”
I yelped, pressing a hand to my pounding chest, barely stopping a string of very colorful language. Big blue eyes framed by a mess of blonde hair stared up at me.
“Oh my god, Goldie, you scared me. Well, uh…” I paused. “Chonies is how you say underwear in Spanish.”
“Why aren’t you wearing underwear?”
“What?” My brows pinched. “No, I didn’t sa—”
“Daddy says we have to wear underwear and shirts,” she said, cutting me off with a little perplexed frown.
She climbed onto the stool at the island, and I shot forward to steady it as she lifted herself onto her little knees.
How are little kids so unconcerned with their safety?
“Are you supposed to have those?” I asked as she reached for the bowl of trail mix in the middle, conveniently far from any edges, which made me think she was not.
She shoved a handful of M&Ms into her mouth and shot me a chocolate-covered smile. Part of me considered telling her no, but, as Monroe pointed out, my babysitting shift didn’t start until five.
“What are you two doing?”
We jumped at his voice, staring at one another with wide eyes.
“Gracie’s not wearing any undies!” Goldie yelled out.
“What?” Monroe and I said simultaneously.
You’d think with all my younger cousins, I’d have remembered there was no loyalty amongst little kids.
My eyes were on her, but his were definitely on me. The side of my head was a million degrees hotter.
“That was not what I said, Goldie.” But I couldn’t hide my smirk, oddly proud of her.
She giggled.
“What were you saying, then?” Monroe asked.
“Uh…”
Heat crawled up my cheeks. How would I explain talking about underwear without confessing my pep talk about keeping mine on around him?
“Well, she called them chonies, not undies. Das Spanish,” Goldie said, saving me. “But Daddy, das not good, right?”
Her face followed him as he walked into the kitchen, coming to a stop across from us. I’d been avoiding looking at him until that point, but couldn’t anymore.
Damn it. I pulled my eyes away, but the image was burned into my brain.