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“Yeah,” she sighed, “he’s special.”
“Good. Then I will bring you both something extra expensive when I get back.”
“Non,” he snapped. “I want to spoil you. Let me spoil you. You are mon petite tresor, my only treasure. Let me show you my love when I cannot be with you.”
She sighed, closing her eyes. To men like her father and grandfather, men of old money, the giving and owning of material things were a sign of emotional attachment. To her father, money and things were a way of controlling everyone around him, using that power to humiliate and hurt those he was supposed to care for. However, to her grandfather, it was a way to show his love and affection, a way to take care of and protect those he loved.
Hence the monthly calls and occasional expensive gifts like name-brand handbags, TVs, and French wine. Ad nauseum, her grandpa pushed to give her money, to set up an account for her and AJ to use, but both of them were adamant about making their own way—though they were grateful for the gifts. Could she ask her grandpa to support her, and could she live in the lap of luxury without working another day in her life? Could she? Yes. Would she? Not fucking ever. She was a woman of action, ambition, and the fiery need for independence after so many years of being a prisoner. So, she worked, paid her bills with what she earned, only flaunting her grandpa’s gifts whenever the mood struck her.
“Alejandro isn’t nearly this difficult about this,” her grandfather drawled, sniffing indignantly. Lord, he was so dramatic sometimes.
“AJ is using the money Mom left us, which is plenty. And yes, he still works because he is proud of what he and Blaze built.”
“He should be proud, I am. Proud of you both, mon tresor.”
Warmth spread through her, making her smile.
“Thank you, Grand-Pere,” she said, using a word she knew he would appreciate.
Her grandfather sighed happily, making her smile grow.
“Tu me manques chéri. Tellement beaucoup.”
“English, Papa,” she said, sighing once again. “Anyway, I’m headed inside, and I’d like to change into something more comfortable than my work clothes. The weekend is calling my name.”
“Of course, mon tresor. Have a good weekend with your bonbon homme,” he effused with a purr.
She laughed at her grandfather calling Sly her “man candy’, said goodbye, then hit END.
Using her key for the first time, Sally let herself into Sly’s house, taking the stairs in a rush to change into the yoga pants and loose t-shirt she had in the duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Usually, she just stuffed her overnight bag with what she’d need, but times had changed. She actually had clothes in his closet, her hygiene products in his bathroom, and her favorite foods in his kitchen. Things had gone from “let’s make this work” to “it’s working better than I ever dreamed” in less than a month.
Is it too good to be true? Am I going too fast?Both questions she hadn’t wanted to give time to consider. She was really, truly, deliriously happy for the first time, and she wanted to relish it, swaddle herself in it, and forget about the world outside, just waiting for a chance to poison everything.
After changing her clothes, she checked her phone for the recipe for arroz con pollo she wanted to try. It wasn’t anywhere near as good as her mother’s, but Sally couldn’t remember her mother’s recipe—just another thing about her beautiful mother her father had ruined.
Busy checking the recipe and setting out all the ingredients on the counter, she was surprised to hear the front door open and shut. Sly was home early.
Thrilled that she would have more time with him that evening, she called out, “In the kitchen.”
Hurrying to remove the apron from around her waist—because she refused to meet her man while wearing something as unbecoming as an apron—she jerked to stop when a woman she’d hope to see never again sauntered into the kitchen.
Yolanda White. The ex-wife.
“I’m glad to see Sly has finally decided to hire someone,” Loni sneered. “A house this big requires more than a weekly cleaning service.”
“Pardon?” Seriously? That woman was not only going to act like she’d never seen Sally before, but she was also pulling the “she looks Hispanic, she must be the help” bullshit card.
Loni’s gaze narrowed, her chin lifting disdainfully. “Don’t speak much English? Of course, not. None of your type ever try to assimilate once they’ve slithered in.”
“I don’t speak Spanish,” Sally replied numbly, her words an automatic reply she’d often had to employ when encountering bigots. “And I’m just as American as you are.”
What the hell is happening here?
The woman’s sharp laugh was venomous, her expression even more so.
“It doesn’t matter either way. You’re still nothing more than the hired help—probably hoping your little affair with the master will get you a ring.”
Recoiling in disgust, Sally growled, “So you remember me.”
