29 RHEA
I'm curled up in the guest bed, lost in my well-worn copy of The Hunger Games when a shadow falls across the page. Looking up, I find Corey leaning against the doorframe, his presence filling the space.
"What's up invalid?" I dog-ear the page, setting the book aside.
"Feel like being my chauffeur?" He crosses his arms, wincing slightly at the movement.
"Depends where we're going."
"My mother's." He runs a hand over his short hair. "Apparently, Tobias let it slip about my... incident. Now she's breathing fire."
My stomach drops. "Your mother's? As in, you want me to meet your mother?"
"That a problem?"
I gesture at myself - wild hair, tattoos, nose ring. "Have you seen me? Moms hate me on principle."
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest. "You act like I'm trying to marry you, honey."
The word 'marry' makes me freeze, my heart skipping. He notices, because of course he does, and his smile turns wolfish.
"Though now that you mention it..." He pushes off the doorframe. "Wouldn't be such a bad idea."
Before I can process that bomb he just dropped, he's already heading down the hall. "Meet you downstairs in ten."
I stare at the empty doorway, my mind racing. Holy fuck. What does one wear to meet the mother of your maybe-something who runs an illegal fight club and just casually mentioned marriage?
I bound down the stairs , having settled on mom jeans and a vintage band tee. Corey stands by the front door, and my steps falter. He's traded his usual all-black ensemble for dark wash jeans and a navy henley that stretches perfectly across his shoulders.
"Damn," I whistle. "You clean up nice."
He tosses something at me - keys landing perfectly in my outstretched hand. "Let's see how you handle her."
"Her?" I follow him outside where a cherry red Jeep Wrangler sits in the driveway. "Since when do you own anything that isn't black?"
"Since I decided looking like I'm heading to a funeral might not be the best impression for Mom." He slides into the passenger seat, sunglasses already in place.
I hop behind the wheel, adjusting the seat and mirrors. "Smart thinking. Though I might still give her a heart attack."
The engine purrs to life and I pull onto the street. Corey immediately reaches for the radio, but I swat his hand away.
"Driver picks the music."
"My car, my rules."
"That's not how this works." I flip through stations until heavy guitar riffs fill the cabin. "Perfect."
"No." He switches it to some oldies station.
I change it back. "My driving soundtrack requires at least three guitar solos."
"Your driving soundtrack is giving me a headache." But there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he slouches in his seat, one arm hanging out the open window.
The city gradually thins out around us, buildings giving way to actual trees. With the wind whipping through my hair and Corey humming along to songs he claims to hate, I feel the tension of the past few weeks melting away. Even if his mom hates me on sight, this moment right here? Worth it.
"You know," Corey says during a commercial break, "most people would be more nervous about toting around a criminal."
"Please. Your mom definitely scares me more."
His laugh carries away on the breeze.
Following his directions, I turn onto a quiet suburban street lined with identical houses. Each one sports perfectly manicured lawns and cheerful flower beds - the kind of place that probably has a ruthless HOA.
"This one," Corey points to a pale yellow two-story with white trim. "The one with the rose bushes."
“Did Tobias plant those too?” I ask.
Corey laughs, “Tobias’ gardening has nothing on Marisol Mendoza.” I ease the Jeep into the driveway. "This is where the big bad Corey Mendoza grew up? It's like something out of Better Homes and Gardens."
Before I can reach for my door handle, Corey's already there opening it for me.
"I can do that myself, you know." I swing my legs out. “You’re injured.” "Mom's probably watching through the blinds." He offers his hand. "Making sure her son remembers his manners."
"Ah, so this is all for show?" I take his hand anyway, letting him help me down.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night darling."
We barely make it three steps up the front walk before the door swings open. A tiny woman with silver-streaked dark hair stands there, hands on her hips.
"Corey Alexander Mendoza!" She marches down to us. "Let me look at you."
I bite back a laugh at his middle name as his mother fusses over him in a long line of spanish I can’t make out, turning his face this way and that. Despite being at least a foot shorter, she manages to make him look like a scolded schoolboy.
"I'm fine, Mama." He endures her inspection with practiced patience.
"Fine? Tobias said you were stabbed!" Her accent gets thicker with worry.
"Not stabbed, just cut up a bit. You know he tends to exaggerate."
She clicks her tongue, then finally seems to notice me. Her stern expression melts into a warm smile. "And who is this beautiful young lady?"
Heat creeps up my neck. "I'm Rhea. It's nice to meet you, Mrs.
Mendoza."
"Please, call me Marisol." She waves us toward the door. "Come in, come in. You're just in time for lunch. I made Corey's favorite."
Corey's hand finds the small of my back as we follow her inside.
"Told you she'd like you," he whispers.
“It’s still early.” The aroma of garlic and spices fills the cozy kitchen as Marisol sets down a steaming dish of paella. My stomach growls embarrassingly loud.
"Someone's hungry," Corey teases, pulling out my chair.
"Hush," Marisol scolds, serving me first. "A girl needs to eat.
Look how skinny she is!"
I dig in immediately, savoring the perfectly cooked rice and seafood. "This is amazing, Marisol."
"My abuela's recipe." She beams, settling into her own chair. "I used to make it for Corey after his soccer games."
"Soccer?" I raise an eyebrow at him. "I pictured you more as a
'punch things' kind of kid."
"Oh, he was terrible!" She laughs. "All legs, no coordination. But so determined." She reaches over to pat his cheek. "Until he discovered martial arts at thirteen. Then suddenly my sweet boy wanted to fight everyone."
"Mama..." Corey protests, but there's fondness in his voice.
"What? It's true! Remember when you challenged Mr. Garcia's son because he pulled Maria's pigtails?"
I lean forward, grinning. "Do tell."
"I was defending her honor," Corey mutters into his wine glass.
"You were showing off," his mother corrects. "Though it worked – they dated all through high school."
"Until she dumped me for the basketball captain," Corey adds.
"Her loss." I bump his shoulder with mine.
The conversation flows easily after that, Marisol sharing stories of young Corey while he pretends to be embarrassed. But I catch him watching me laugh, something soft in his expression.
"More wine?" He offers, already reaching for my glass.
"Please." Our fingers brush as he takes it, and warmth spreads through my chest that has isn’t coming from the alcohol.
Marisol catches the exchange, her eyes twinkling. "You know, Corey never brings girls home."
"Mama..."
"What? I'm just saying, you must be special."
I duck my head, hiding my smile behind my refilled glass. Here, in this warm kitchen with its checkered curtains and family photos, it's hard to reconcile this Corey with the dangerous man who runs underground fights. But somehow, both versions feel equally real.
The evening wraps up with Marisol insisting on sending us home with enough leftovers to feed an army. As we stand by the door, she pulls me into a warm hug that smells of garlic and jasmine perfume.
"You take care of my boy," she whispers, patting my cheek. "He needs someone to keep him in line."
"Mama," Corey groans, but there's no real irritation in it.
"I'll do my best," I promise, catching his eye over his mother's shoulder.
"Good girl. And you" - she turns to Corey - "bring her back soon.
Maybe for Sunday dinner next week?"
“I’ll try my best Mama,” he kisses her on the cheek and I swear I choke up. Times like these make my miss my dad something fierce.
If he could see me now, he would get a kick out of this. He always said I was prone to trouble.
The drive home is quiet but comfortable, the radio playing soft rock as street lights paint stripes across the dashboard.
My fingers tap against the steering wheel, mind replaying the evening.
The way Corey's knee brushed mine under the table.
How his eyes crinkled when he laughed at his mother's stories.
We pull into the driveway, and I kill the engine. The house looms dark and silent - Tobias and Julian still out of town.
"Thanks for coming with me tonight," Corey says as we climb the stairs. "Sorry about the interrogation."
"Are you kidding? Your mom's amazing." I pause at my door, keys jingling in my hand. "Though I can't believe she showed me your eighth-grade yearbook photo."
"We will never speak of that again." He steps closer, and suddenly the hallway feels very small. "But I'm glad you came."
My breath catches as his fingers brush a strand of hair from my face. The touch lingers, trailing down my neck.
"Goodnight, Rhea." His voice is low, rough.
"Goodnight." I manage to unlock my door without looking away from him.
We both hesitate, the air crackling between us. Then Corey takes a deliberate step back, hands sliding into his pockets.
"Sweet dreams." He turns toward his room, leaving me to slip inside mine on shaky legs.
I lean against the closed door, heart pounding. What the hell am I getting myself into?