CHAPTER ONE
Asher
Five years later
Dad’s black slacks hung in the closet of his old room at Grandma’s, and his photo still sat on the dresser. In it, he was twenty—my age now.
Grandma always said I was his copy. As a kid, I’d been desperate to grow up so I could wear his clothes. Now that wish had come true. The pants fit, but his shoes were still too big to fill.
A knock dragged me back. My best friend Javi poked his head inside. “You ready? Maricarmen’s getting impatient.”
It was Grandma’s sixty-second birthday. Tomorrow she’d celebrate with friends at a restaurant, but tonight was just family.
“Almost,” I said. “Where is she?”
“Kitchen. She sent me to buy bread.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’ll shower and go.”
“Vale. Okay.”
As soon as he left, I yanked the slacks off the hanger and shoved them on. Then the white button-down. It stretched too tight across my chest, so I undid the top buttons before they could pop.
Rolling up my sleeves, I headed for the kitchen.
Grandma straightened in her chair, waving a hand through the smoke as if that would clear it.
I groaned. “Again?”
She paused Titanic—her guilty pleasure, right up there with tobacco. I’d rather sit through Jack drowning a hundred times than deal with her smoking.
Her warm brown eyes studied me, coral lips twitching before splitting into a grin. “?Qué guapo!” Handsome.
I rolled my eyes on my way to the fridge. “You promised you’d quit.”
“I promised I’d think about it.” Her gaze dropped to my legs. “Te queda corto.”
Hand on the fridge handle, I turned. “Huh?”
“El pantalón.” The pants.
I looked down. The fabric stopped well above my ankles. Not stylish—ridiculous.
Shit.
“Has crecido.” Grandma sprang up and wrapped me in a hug so tight I coughed. “Like father, like son.” She sighed, patting my chest. “Just taller. You’re as tall as your grandpa. He’d have loved to see you grow up.”
For her sake, I mustered a smile. “I know.”
What I didn’t know was how she’d survived two devastating losses—first her husband, then her son—without losing her spark. The white-walled house held thousands of memories of the men I admired most: Commander Joshua Williams, my grandpa, and Sergio Williams, my dad.
I was eight when Grandpa died. If someone had told me I’d lose Dad seven years later, I would’ve thought it was a cruel joke. It still felt like one.
Grandma ran her manicured fingers through my hair. “How many hearts have you broken, huh?”
I smirked. “Today, or. . .?”
Laughing, she pushed me away. “Go cook. The guests will be here soon.”
“Let me change first.”
Back in the bedroom, I swapped Dad’s slacks for my black jeans.
When I returned to the kitchen, Titanic was still playing. Grandma watched, enthralled, as if she didn’t already know every line.
I whisked eggs for la tortilla, glancing at the screen every few seconds. “What a realistic movie.”
She huffed, pushing aside a crystal ashtray. “You’re a cynic.”
Laughter bubbled in my throat, but I swallowed it.
No need to rile her up. As a high school English teacher, she was used to smartasses.
Her students both adored and feared her—and for good reason.
Grandpa might have commanded the NAVSTA in Rota, but María del Carmen ruled this house with absolute authority.
“A realist,” I corrected, pouring oil into the pan. “He didn’t have to die. It was unnecessary. Added for drama’s sake.”
“You’re too young.” She waved her hand, golden rings catching the last rays of sunlight. “Of course that piece of wood was big enough for them both. But she was his reason to sink.”
I snorted, dicing the potatoes I’d peeled earlier. “You’re saying it’s okay to die for someone you barely know?”
“Not to die,” she said. “But to put those you love first. And often”—her eyes misted, like they always did when she thought of Grandpa or Dad—“your reason to sink is the same as your reason to stay afloat. Would I have traded places with your grandpa? In a heartbeat. But fate didn’t want it that way.
He wanted me to live and be happy, and that’s what I’ve done.
And your dad wanted his wife and son to live a happy life too. ”
I dumped the potatoes into the scorching oil, the sizzling drowning out my sharp exhale. It wasn’t the same. Almost twelve years later, Grandma was still faithful to her husband. My mother had jumped into a new relationship and never looked back.
Even now, everything about her and Russell Demeri was a sore subject. Maybe I was a resentful asshole, but I remembered how she dragged me to the States less than three months after Dad’s accident. I felt caged. Desperate to escape.
And when Russell took me to the track soon after, I’d hijacked a bike too big and heavy for me—rode it without gear—just as a fuck you.
I got what I wanted that day. Russell didn’t know how to handle the teenage punk who defied him, so he hadn’t objected when I told Mom I wanted to return to Spain and finish high school here.
She tried to stop me, but Grandma convinced her. The condition: Dawson, Russell’s former mechanic, would move to Spain with me to keep me on a leash.
I hadn’t expected us to get along. I was ready to hate him like I hated Russell. But Dawson was kind, a pro, and instead of babysitting me, he treated me as an equal.
“You shouldn’t punish Sharon for carrying on with her life,” Grandma said softly, pulling me back. “She’s your mother, and she loves you. Don’t write her off.”
I stirred the potatoes with a wooden spoon. “Nobody wrote her off. I called her. I visited. She has no reason to complain.”
“She wants to fix things, Ash. I think you should let her.”
I turned, winking. “And I think this is going to be the best tortilla you’ve tried.”
“Creído,” she muttered, standing—but the proud smile tugging at her tanned face gave her away.
She knew damn well five years of making dinner turned me into an excellent cook.
It was our deal—she made lunch; I made dinner.
I wouldn’t let her do everything alone. Managing a huge house on top of full-time work was exhausting, and I was more than capable of cleaning, doing my laundry, and cooking for both of us.
Today, though, I was cooking for five, and voices drifting from the foyer confirmed my timing sucked.
Dawson and his goddamned punctuality.
***
Grandma clutched a bouquet of roses and a gift bag, deep in conversation with Dawson as I walked toward the table near the fountain in the courtyard. My white sneakers slapped against the terra-cotta tiles, but neither of them noticed me until I set the tortilla down, rattling Grandma’s china.
“There he is.” Dawson boomed with laughter, spreading his arms. “I was getting hungry. Come here.”
Five years ago, I would’ve flipped him off. Now, I let him hug me. Funny how his grip hurt less than Grandma’s, though he was taller and stronger.
Grandma smiled. “I’ll get water for the roses before Ale arrives. Javi must’ve gotten lost too.”
My agent, Alejandro—or Ale—was permanently late. And Javi? He probably got sidetracked.
Dawson and I sat. He smoothed a hand over his short, graying hair, eyes flicking toward the kitchen door. “Did you talk to Russell?”
“Not yet. You?”
“No. I was just wondering what you’re going to do now.”
Dawson loved Spain enough to learn the language and play cards with locals every evening in his neighborhood. He was my mechanic now, but Russell still signed his checks, and his stay in Spain depended on me.
Mine depended on finding a team. If I kept burning through my inheritance on racing expenses, Dad’s money would run out.
I rearranged my knife and fork, stomach tightening—not from hunger but nerves. “I want to talk to Ale after dinner.”
“?Hola, chicos! ?Qué bien huele aquí!” Hi, guys. Smells amazing.
As if summoned, Ale stepped from the arched gallery, Grandma and Javi close behind. He wore one of his trademark gray suits. Late, probably because of a meeting. Hopefully one about me.
Dawson chuckled. “It smells good because Asher made his tortilla. I was about to sink my teeth in. You’re just in time.”
“Sorry.” Ale grimaced. “Last-minute call.”
Grandma set a charcuterie board of cheese, serrano ham, and chorizo in the center while Dawson opened a bottle of Taberner, our local wine. After he poured everyone a glass of deep red, I raised mine. “?Felicidades, abuela!”
Ale, Javi, and Dawson joined in. I drank, the spiced berry flavor lingering on my tongue, then reached for the ham while the others gushed over my tortilla.
An hour later, dusk painted the October sky purple. Grandma lit a cigarette. Dawson refilled his glass, but when he tipped the bottle toward Ale’s, my agent pressed a palm over it. “Espera. I’m going to steal Ash for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”
Javi shot me a hopeful look. Like me, he’d dedicated years to sport. But while I still chased the dream of professional racing, Javi was already there—a pro footballer, his second division team newly promoted to the first.
“We’ll be here,” Grandma said.
Ale rose to his feet. He hadn’t even taken off his jacket, and his glass sat nearly full. Still in business mode. Wariness crept into my steps as I followed him through the gallery and out of the house.
We strolled down the street, dodging kids kicking a football and neighbors chatting in the middle of the narrow sidewalk. At the marina, I stopped. Ale stood beside me, gaze fixed on the yachts swaying over the calm water. “I’ve got news.”
My gut churned. “I figured. Good or bad?”
“Very good.” He flicked a glance my way, then back to the ocean as if he didn’t want me reading his face. “The Kawasaki team in Barcelona expressed interest after studying your portfolio. I’m still talking to them, but there’s also—”
“Ale.” I gripped the railing tighter. The wine buzz vanished in a whoosh, leaving me sober and anxious. “What about Forward Racing?”
Ale sighed. “They want you.”