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“Still. That must be very hard, to know you will lose them.”

“It’s not about me,” she says simply.

I take her words in. Let them sink to my bones. I can’t imagine how she does it. I don’t think I’d be able to.

“I got Hazelnut right after I got Walton,” she says. “She kept getting returned. No one understood her.” Eloise’s nostrils flare, and she shakes her head, slicing the onion with extra vigor. “And then the Colonel—he’s the largest breed I’ve ever had, but he’s probably the sweetest dog I’ve ever met. Aren’t you, bud?”

The Colonel raises his head and smiles, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“But any dog with a medical issue is a tough case for adoption,” she says. “And then there’s Pip,” she adds. “My most recent rescue. And I …” Her voice trails off. “I don’t really know what to do about Pip.”

“I think you’re doing a great job with him,” I say.

She shakes her head with a sort of solemn finality, effectively ending the conversation, then dumps her sliced onion into the bowl. I add the rest of the shrimp.

“What’s next?” she asks.

19Eloise

“Next we make the sopesitos,” Agustín says, holding up what looks like a metal torture device.

I’m feeling more comfortable than I would have ever thought possible given that there’s a man in my kitchen, and it appears I’m going to be eating raw shrimp (I totally lied about the ceviche). But I love talking about my dogs, especially the ones who have passed. It makes them feel alive again. God, I want to listen to Def Leppard now. And maybe some Bon Jovi. Ginger really loved “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

I like this type of preparation for the wedding much more than coffee with Madame Boularès. At first, I was terrified—standing in my small kitchen with Agustín, his smoky, leather-cardamom scent surrounding me, his lean tan arms being all lean and tan and omg-right-there-next-to-me. But as I focused on the feel of a blade slicing through cucumber flesh, the scent of onion filling my nose, and talked about Lucky Lou and Ginger, and remembered that first trip to Safe Haven, I started to relax.

Talking to Agustín is almost like talking to Rachel. As long as I don’t look at him. That’s when things go wonky, what with all the mouth-watering and stomach-clenching, and my thoughts drifting to things that are definitely not allowed. Like how strong and confident his hands are as they wield the knife, how the muscles in his forearms ripple beneath his olive skin as he chops a jalapeño, how expressive his eyebrows are when they’re furrowed in concentration. I love how one cocks slightly above the other when I say something that surprises him.

Oh my fucking god, I’m attracted to his eyebrows. I need help.

“What is that?” I ask, inspecting said torture device. Its metal is painted a deep blue, and it appears to be two circles linked by a hinge, with some longer piece of metal attached to it.

“This is a tortilla press,” he says.

I can’t help myself. “We’re making tacos?” I ask excitedly. Yes, I am that basic white girl who loves me some tacos.

“No,” Agustín says, and then he legit winks at me, which should be creepy but when he does it, it looks cool and makes my pulse splutter. “We are making sopes. I call them sopesitos, because in Mexico, we use the diminutive a lot—adding ‘ito’ or ‘ita’ to words to make them cuter.”

“Oh,” I say. I sound it out. “So-peh-see-tos.”

“Perfecto!” Agustín says, dimples flashing. “Now, sopesito also means a small sope—it’s not just an Agustín flair on the word. There might be little sopesitos at this wedding as appetizers since they are so traditional. My sister Lupe had them at her wedding. Even though Diego’s family is estupidamente rico, no red-blooded Mexican can resist the call of the sope.”

“Really?”

He purses his lips. “That was an exaggeration, but they are very good, I promise.”

“What are they?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” he says. “Do you have a large skillet? Or a comal would be better.”

“I’ve got a few skillets,” I say, pulling them out from a cupboard. He sets the largest one on a burner and turns the heat on.

“First, we make the masa. That’s the dough.” He opens the huge bag of corn flour as I grab another bowl from the cupboard. He measures out the flour. “Then we add water. Just a bit at a time. I used to love watching my mom making masa for his sopes when I was a kid.”

I frown. “You mean her sopes?”

Agustín shakes his head. “Pinche genders,” he mutters. “Yes, sorry. Her sopes.”

I watch as he adds a bit of water, mixing it into the flour with his fingers, then a little more, then more, until it’s all blended together. He forms a smooth round ball.