Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Kyle
Alycia stands a few feet away from her childhood home, shoulders tight and eyes fixed on the front door like she’s trying to remember how to breathe.
I should look away, give her some space…
something, but I can’t. She looks as if she plans to hold the entire night together by sheer will, and it pulls at me before I can stop it.
I should say something, but every version in my head sounds like a confession I shouldn’t make.
She’s standing there in the glow of streetlights, hair loose around her face, the soft gold catching at the edges of her skin.
She pretends to be calm, but her fingers clench the strap of her bag as if it's the only thing keeping her together. And for the first time since this whole thing started, I realize I don’t want to play anymore.
Wanting something real with Alycia wasn’t part of the plan.
Whatever this is between us, it’s not fake, at least not for me.
I should say something to break the tension. Tell her to go ahead before it swallows us both. Instead, all I can think about is how damn beautiful she looks when she’s trying not to feel anything, and how badly I want to be the reason she stops pretending.
She clears her throat, the sound small and shaky, then says quietly, “I just… I want her to like you, even if it’s all fake.”
There’s a crack in her voice she tries to hide, but it slips through, like this moment is bigger than the lie we’ve built.
“Guess I’ll have to turn on the charm, then.”
Alycia laughs nervously, and the sound lodges somewhere deep in my chest. If she has any idea what she’s doing to me, she hides it better than I do.
All I can think about is how close she’s standing and how her perfume—something light and citrusy—hangs in the air between us.
I want to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, trace the curve of her jaw just to see if her skin feels as soft as it looks.
But I don’t because the moment I touch her, I know there’s no coming back from it.
Alycia looks up at me again, and for a split second, it’s all there in her eyes.
The same awareness, the same pull I’ve been fighting since the elevator. Then she blinks, and it’s gone.
“Ready?” She straightens her shoulders like she’s reminding herself why we’re here.
Not even close, but I nod anyway.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile as I follow her up the walkway, keeping just enough distance to look like a gentleman and not a man one breath away from doing something stupid.
When she reaches the door, her hand trembles slightly on the knob. She probably thinks I don’t notice, but I do. After taking another deep breath, Alycia turns the handle, and the door swings open. Warm light spills out like an invitation as she steps inside first.
Right away, the place smells like cumin, warm tortillas, and something sweet simmering on the stove.
The entryway is small but cozy, with textured throw pillows on the couch, a crocheted blanket draped over the armrest, and a few candles on a side table.
One has the Virgin Mary printed on the glass, the flame flickering behind her like a watchful eye.
Along the hallway, framed photos cover the wall.
Some are of birthday parties and holidays, but most are big group shots.
There are lots of people squeezed together, arms looped, grinning like family means more than space.
One photo is of an older woman with soft eyes and the same curls as Alycia.
The resemblance is so strong it knocks something loose in my chest.
Before I can stop myself, I nod toward it. “Is that…?”
Alycia follows my gaze. “My abuelita. She’s still in Oaxaca with almost all our family. That’s where my mom grew up.” There’s pride in her voice, and something tender.
I glance at her, the weight of what she said settling deeper than I expect.
“That’s different from me. My whole family still lives in the same town I grew up in.
I went away for college, but somehow, I still ended up right back here in Oregon.
Guess I’m not great at staying away from the people who matter. ”
Her cheeks flush slightly before she looks away and clears her throat, like she needs to change the subject before I make it worse. “We don’t get to see most of our family that much, maybe a few times a year. It’s just Mom and me here in the States.”
I hesitate, wanting to ask her more questions about her family, but she turns toward the kitchen like flipping a switch. “Mom?”
The woman who appears could have stepped out of a movie set for the world’s most put-together mom.
She has smooth, brown skin with a honey-gold undertone, dark curls streaked with silver pulled into a loose bun, and eyes sharp enough to catch everything.
She has that effortless beauty that older Latina women always seem to have, which comes from confidence, not makeup.
Her posture matches Alycia’s, a straight spine and lifted chin, like she has spent her whole life holding herself steady for someone else.
She’s wearing a gray sweater that is slipping off one shoulder over well-worn jeans, and she is barefoot with her toes painted coral, the same shade as Alycia’s.
Great. Apparently, that is the detail my brain focuses on instead of the fact that I am meeting her mother for the first time. Perfect timing, Hendrix.
“Hola, mija,” she says, her accent thick enough that it wraps around the syllables. She pulls Alycia into a hug that looks like muscle memory. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing company.”
“You sort of bullied me into it, remember?” Alycia gives a quick, tight smile.
“Ay, por favor,” she scoffs. “I only said I wanted to finally meet the person keeping you so busy. No need to pretend I twisted your arm.”
“But you did twist my arm,” Alycia says under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.
I raise an eyebrow. “Should I feel flattered or worried?”
“A little of both.” She glances at me with a familiar spark in her eyes.
“Well, I’m just glad you accepted.” Her mom hums, clearly entertained.
“It would’ve been hard to say no. A home-cooked dinner and sweet company? I’d have to be an idiot.”
“Careful, you’re talking about my mom.” Alycia’s eyes narrow slightly.
“Exactly,” I say, smiling slowly. “She’s sweet company.”
Her mom laughs, then murmurs, “Mira nada más…” with this soft, teasing delight that makes Alycia’s spine go rigid.
“Mamá,” Alycia warns.
“It’s a compliment,” her mother insists, smiling at her own joke. “And who is this handsome boy?”
I open my mouth, realizing instantly I have no clue what to call her. “Uh…”
“Mom, this is Kyle,” she says quickly, and when she says my name, it hits like a body check.
She’s never said it out loud before, at least not like that, and now she’s looking at me like the word belongs in her mouth. I could get addicted to this.
“Kyle, nice to meet you. I’m Marisol.” Her mom arches a brow, smiling.
I take her offered hand, trying not to look like a man who just narrowly escaped calling her Mom without knowing what else to do.
“Marisol is a beautiful name. I should probably hold off on calling you Mom until I’ve at least survived dinner, right?”
“Oh my God.” Alycia groans under her breath.
“Good answer. You’re a charmer, eh?” Marisol laughs, a full-bodied sound of delight.
“If I told you the truth, I’d sound like an idiot, so charm will have to do.”
Marisol cuts her eyes toward Alycia, lips curling like she’s clocked something I haven’t. “Tiene labia, este.”
Alycia chokes on air. “Mamá.”
Marisol only smiles wider, satisfied like she’s nailed me to the wall with three words. “Dinner is almost ready. You can tell me all about how you met while we wait.”
“Or not,” Alycia mutters.
“Or especially that,” Marisol corrects with a wink.
The house smells of roasted vegetables and cumin, like warmth and safety, but there’s more under it now that we’re closer to the kitchen, something that’s been simmering for hours and probably tastes like comfort you can’t fake. Whatever it is, it makes my stomach tighten in the best way.
Jazz hums low from a speaker somewhere, blending with the soft sizzle coming from the stove and the steady rhythm of Marisol’s knife hitting a cutting board.
There’s a stack of warm tortillas under a dish towel on the counter, steam curling from underneath like they’ve been made fresh.
I don’t know much about cooking, but I know that smell.
It’s incredible. Every inch of this place feels lived in and loved.
Alycia moves through it easily, brushing her fingers along the back of a chair, little grounding touches, but her nerves show in the quick glances she throws me, making sure I’m keeping up. She keeps looking toward the hallway like she wants one second alone. I shouldn’t notice, but I do.
“Can I help with anything?” she asks, stepping into the kitchen.
“Can you pour the wine, Mija?” Marisol asks, opening a cabinet with her hip like she’s been doing this forever, before glancing over her shoulder at me. “Do you want red or white, Kyle?”
“Whatever you’re pouring.”
“That’s brave.” Alycia laughs softly as she reaches for the bottle. Her hand passes by a bowl filled with limes and something leafy and bright that smells fresh even from here.
“Or stupid,” I counter, leaning against the counter beside her. Our elbows brush, a fleeting contact that shoots through me like static. She glances up, pretending it didn’t happen, but the corner of her mouth betrays her.
Marisol, still setting out plates, hums under her breath, “Mira nomás cómo lo estás mirando…”
Alycia stiffens like she’s been shot, eyes snapping to her mom—a don’t you dare kind of glare. I have no idea what was said, but the way Alycia cuts a glare at Marisol tells me it was probably not something she wanted me to hear.