Page 83 of Serving Bunt

I’d been home less than twenty-four hours and was still discovering things she had somehow accomplished during the week I’d spent at the inn. The pantry had been reorganized, top to bottom, with neat labels for every shelf. The refrigerator looked like it belonged in a goddamn magazine, and my laundry room had somehow gained three new storage baskets and lost at least a decade of accumulated clutter.

Most impressively—and concerningly—she had rearranged my living room furniture. I was still stuck on that one. The massive coffee table alone weighed nearly the same as a midsize sedan and had somehow been moved several feet to the left.

“The room flows much better.” She huffed.

That was the worst part of all.

She was right. The room did flow better.

I had absolutely no intention of telling her that, though. The woman was already impossible; she didn’t need the encouragement.

“And don’t think I didn’t notice the new painting in the guest bathroom.”

Abuelita’s eyes lit up. “You like it?”

“Like it?” I laughed. “Abuelita, it’s a giant painting of a very well-endowed, naked man riding a donkey through a field.”

She waved her hands dismissively and clicked the movie back on, clearly done with this conversation. “It’s art. Very tasteful.”

“That’s one word for it,” I mumbled.

Abuelita cackled. “Peter Rafael, are you blushing? At your age?”

“I’m not blushing. I’m traumatized. There’s a difference.”

She reached over and patted my cheek. “A little trauma builds character. Now, stop stalling and go see your boy before I decide to redecorate the rest of the house while you’re gone.”

I was halfway out of the theater when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, heart nearly leaping out of my chest when a familiar name flashed across the screen.

Matty

I know you said to take some time to think, but . . .

A slow grin spread across my face when it buzzed again.

Matty

Come over. Please.

If you’re not too busy.

And bring Abuelita’s pasties with you.

I snorted.

Matty

Fucking hell. Pastelón.

My fingers clicked across the screen even as I took the stairs two at a time.

Me

On my way, tesoro.

“You want to do what with me?”

I couldn’t help the shit-eating grin on my lips if I tried. Not when Matty was staring back at me with eyes wide as saucers, clutching Mo to his chest like she was a security blanket.