Graciella #3
“Really?” I asked, deadpan. “You’re so dramatic. You can’t think of romantic things you’d do for your girlfriend?”
“But she’s not my girlfriend. I’ve never even met her. How would I know?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re telling me you can’t make anything up? I don’t know, say you bought her a star and named it after your relationship? Something.”
“Who buys someone a star?” A line formed between his brows. “You do know you don’t actually own them, right? It’s just a piece of paper and money you gave away.”
“Because it’s romantic, Monroe.” I threw my hands in the air. “A woman wants to be thought of. It’s not about actually owning it—it’s about the romance. What’s more romantic than a couple forever cementing their love in the cosmos?”
The crease was now as deep as the Mariana Trench. Nothing about my speech seemed to have enlightened him about the ways of romance.
“Rrrright…” He leaned toward me over the table. “How about we say I send her weekly flowers? Might be a little much to cement our love since it’s not real.”
I sighed, because he had a point. And Itzel might freak out if he bought her a star. Who’d get the star in the breakup? “Fine. Flowers are nice, too, I guess.”
“What? You don’t like flowers?”
My pen flew across the paper, jotting the answer down. I’d make it sound better later. “No, I like them just fine.”
“What would you want to be sent?”
I looked up to find him staring. His blue eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my throat tighten. The slight crooked set of his nose and the dusting of facial hair only made his face more striking—more real. He was looking at me like he wanted the answer. Like it mattered.
“I…I’m not sure.”
“Bullshit.”
A lie teetered on the tip of my tongue. He didn’t need to know any of this.
It’d be safer to go with something like, “I’d want chocolates,” or, “Someone to take me to dinner.”
“I’d want him to do things for me that show he’s taken the time to think about it.” I wanted to take the words and shove them back. But more kept coming. “For him to gift me things or take me places—”
“Fixin’ things for you,” he cut in. There was a bit of an edge, but it mostly felt like a friendly jab.
“You’re the only man I have fixing things for me.” The quip came out breathier than intended.
Monroe’s eyes trailed down my body, pinning me in place. “You need me to fix somethin’ else?”
What the hell is happening?
I squeezed my thighs together.
“You good with your hands, Monroe?”
Fuck, I didn’t know when to shut up.
He shrugged and leaned back, draping an arm across the chairback again, the navy striped fabric straining against his muscles. “Been a while since I’ve done anythin’ with ’em, but we could find out.”
I swore heat filled his eyes, but he was so damn hard to read.
Was he flirting?
Shit, was the sexual tension all role-playing?
My throat bobbed, nerves bouncing under the surface. “Oh, so I get to be the guinea pig for you to practice on?” I leaned onto my elbows, resting my chin on the tops of my hands. “Sounds a bit like I’ll be doing charity work.”
He smirked, and my nipples peaked to full attention.
“What can I say, Trouble? I’m feelin’ a bit needy.”
Holy fuck.
I was like a live wire under his gaze. The air crackled with tension. I opened my mouth to say something I definitely shouldn’t, when a squeaky wheel cut me off.
“Okay, I have the food,” Goldie announced. She donned a pair of mismatched plastic heels, a tiara, and a mini apron that read “Daddy’s Little Helper.”
The heat rising in the room abruptly cooled.
“Daddy, what you wanna eat?”
“Wow.” He looked over the side of the table, peering into the metal basket with a face like he was really thinking through his decision. “You’ve got a lot of great choices here, Golds—”
“Chef,” she corrected, in the same deadpan voice I’d heard her father use.
“My apologies, Chef.” Monroe’s eyes found mine. “We watch a lot of Beat Bobby Flay, too,” he explained. “Well, Chef, I’ll take your corn on the cob, and my beautiful date here will take your cake.”
Blood rushed in my ears. Beautiful.
Was that for the role-playing, or had we never really been doing that?
“No, Dad, Gracie gets to order her own food,” Goldie said.
Neither of us looked at her.
We were locked in another stare down, but this one charged with something other than irritation.
“Yeah, usually you’re right, Golds, but Graciella was going to order the cake. Weren’t you?”
Monroe’s smile was like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart—and maybe between my thighs.
“You don’t know that.” I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hide how my heart pounded behind my ribs.
“But I do. You’re the type of woman who’d order dessert first because others would tell you not to. Am I right?” he asked, daring me to deny it.
Water. Water would have been ideal in that moment, because I was swallowing desperately, trying to moisten my throat to throw back a retort.
“Gracie?” Goldie’s little voice broke whatever weird moment we were having. “Dis what you want?” She held out the plastic piece of cake dotted with pink frosting and strawberries.
“Yeah, Golden Girl. I’ll have the cake.”