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“Well…” She exhales heavily. “Elena looks the most like me. She likes the ocean and adventures and she has a sister named Isabel… but she doesn’t have a movie.”
Not going to lie, I’m not familiar with Elena, but I wasn’t a princess type of girl. “I bet she gets one.”
“You’re babysitting now?” Beto’s return interrupts our conversation. “Where’s Valeria?”
Sofia shrinks against my chest, and I cut my eyes at him. “Spending time with family isn’t babysitting.”
“Seamstress… babysitter… waitress…” He shakes his head. “My sister doesn’t do these things.”
My littlest cousin’s arm goes around my waist as if she’s trying to hide, which pisses me off. “Your sister does what she wants. Don’t you have anything better to do than stalk around here insulting people?”
“I haven’t insulted anyone. Where’s Valeria?”
“She went to get Lola to try on her dress. Why?”
“We need to discuss parking for the party, food, drinks. What is this?” He’s at the front door inspecting my bags of supplies and the large canvasses leaning against the wall.
“It’s my art.” My tone is sharp, and I brace for his next rude remark.
To my surprise, his chin rises—apparently this is acceptable to Mr. Proud Treviño. “I’ll take these to the cottage in the garden. You can use it for a studio.”
My anger cools a fraction, and I watch him gathering my stuff. I really don’t know my brother at all.
“Thanks.”
“You can park in the garage…” He looks around as if just realizing. “Where is your car?”
I pick at the hem of Lo’s skirt. “I don’t have one.”
“What? How do you get around?”
“I catch a ride with friends or I call a Lyft or Uber. If it’s late or I want to save money, I ride the bus.”
Black eyes flash, and he stalks over to where I’m sitting with Sofia in my lap. “My sister does not ride the bus.”
“You know, for someone who just got back in town, you sure have a lot of ideas about what your sister does and doesn’t do.” Sofia squirms, and I let her down. “Cars cost money. Car insurance is expensive. Driving is dangerous—”
He starts for the door. “I’ll get you a car.”
“I don’t like to drive.”
Pausing at the doorway, he fixes me with a dark gaze. “Do you have a license?”
“Yes, but I haven’t driven in… weeks.”
“I’ll pick something for you.” It’s the last thing he says before he’s gone, carrying my art out the back door.
I stand, exhaling a
frustrated noise. “Of all the pig-headed, stubborn…”
“Uncle Beto is like King Triton.”
“What’s he like?”
Her eyes widen. “Grumpy.”
Catching her hand, I start for the door, following my brother. “Well, your Uncle Beto’s got another thing coming if he thinks he’s going to keep this up. Let’s check out this garden cottage.”
