Page 45 of Right Up His Alley

I can only laugh. “Yeah, I did. It’s hard not to indulge in food all day.”

“Don’t let Carlada hear this, but I think she’s a better cook than her.”

“Who’s Carlada?”

“Oh, my family’s personal chef. I’ve known her for years. She’s a tough Italian woman.”

I raise an eyebrow. The idea of a personal chef washes over me like a foreign language. I suppose, in a way, my mom is that to me. “Let’s get a plate then before the little ones start stealing all the good shit.”

On instinct, I reach for Truett’s hand, our fingers lacing together. Holding his hand proves helpful as I navigate him through the sea of my family, carefully dodging drunk uncles and rambunctious cousins flying by, as well as the start of a few interrogations all wanting to know who the gringo is.

Two long tables—both of which I set up earlier—are filled with pans of food, most of which my mom made, but some come from her sisters or Tío Pablo. Heavy-duty paper plates are stacked at one end, and I grab two, handing the second to Truett, who seems to salivate over the table. Can’t say I blame him.

“There’s so much. I don’t know where to start! Also, your mom already said I could take home leftovers, and I fully plan on taking her up on that.” Truett grins.

“Get a little of everything, but make sure you take some rice and beans. My mom will be insulted if you don’t.”

“I’m not insulting that amazing woman. I’ll eat all the rice and beans she wants me to,” he proclaims.

“Better keep your voice down, or she might hear you.” I nudge him playfully as we weave through the buffet line. The table is packed with food, every dish carefully laid out for us. There are frijoles de la olla, fluffy rice, spicy elotes, creamy guacamole, and my mom’s homemade pico de gallo—and that’s just one side of the spread. I pile my plate high, loading it with everything in reach, only to realize I’ve made a rookie mistake. There’s barely any room left for the meat. I should have grabbed two plates.

“Hm, I don’t see the potato salad. I should grab it from the fridge. Your mom might have forgotten about it.”

“Urm, let’s walk to the other side. Don’t want to lose your place.” I keep my smile easy as I push Truett along, hoping he’ll forget about his long-lost side because I doubt it’ll make it out of the fridge.

At the other table, I carefully stack carne asada and an extra-charred hot dog precariously on my mound of food. Anything else I want, I’ll have to come back for. “Want a beer?” I ask when we reach the end. “Or the good coke from Mexico?”

“Does it really taste different from American coke?” Truett asks, balancing tortillas at the top of his plate. It’s honestly a little impressive.

“Coke it is. Your whole world is about to change, True. Trust me, once you go Mexican, you never go…well, back doesn’t rhyme, but you get what I mean,” I end lamely, shoving two cokes under my arm to keep them secure.

Truett takes one look around the circus that is my backyard. “Where are we going to sit?”

Normally we don’t have quite so many people over, but with a lot of my older primos dating, engaged, or recently married, our family has expanded. Most of the tables and seats are accounted for. Though I can’t quite see inside the house, I’m betting my kitchen table and living room are both full of people too.

“We could eat in my room,” I suggest, my voice softer than I intend, as if I’m already bracing for the vulnerability that comes with the invitation. The air between us shifts, charged with something unspoken, something heavy.

I don’t let people into my room often. It’s more than just four walls and furniture—it’s an extension of me, the one place where my guard is always down. Letting someone in feels intimate in a way that words can’t capture; it’s like peeling back a layer of myself that I usually keep hidden.

Now I wonder if I’m ready to break that rule. Everything in me tells me it’s a bad idea. Getting close to him can jeopardize everything. But there’s another part of me asking, am I willing to risk it?

The answer is easy. For Truett? Yeah, I am.

Truett hasn’t answered me yet, and I feel like maybe I misspoke. Took things way too far, too fast. It’s just food, but it isn’t, is it? It’s food alone in my room with a man I can barely keep my hands off.

I would kill to know what Truett is thinking right now.

After a few moments of tense silence, Truett glances over at me and smiles. “I would love to eat in your room. I promise I won’t spill a single grain of rice on the mattress.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.” I chuckle and then beckon him to follow. I try to stay calm and collected, but deep down I’m a mess of nerves and horniness.

This will be fine, I tell myself as I open the door to my room. Then I brace myself.

Ezra shuts the door, and the noise from the party dulls to a faint hush, as if a barrier has settled between us and the rest of the world. My nerves jump at the sudden quiet, pulse tapping against my ribs, but I shake it off. I’m loving every second of this family barbecue—getting to know Ezra’s family, eating the kind of food people actually fight over, and the easy way everyone folds me into conversations like I’ve always been here.

It’s strange, though. I keep waiting to get something wrong—be told to mind my own business, say the wrong thing, or forget I don’t belong here. No one in my life has ever passed plates around like this, bumping shoulders, debating over who makes the better sauce like it’s a joke instead of a one-up or a less-than-humble brag. It’s always been about perfection, business, and competition with the Thornes.

Ezra acts like this is all normal, like I’ve already been part of it.