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He’s laughing, but there’s this look of hope in his face, and I wonder if he’s being serious.
His eyes study me. “What? You don’t like kids?”
I clear my throat. “I happen to love children.” I always wanted kids—Jacob didn’t.
Maceo’s looks pleased and he bites his lower lip to keep himself from smiling too broadly.
Our waitress comes and we order our favorite dishes, but we start bickering over drink orders.
“They have a fully stocked bar, Pixie. Why are you ordering water?”
I frown at him. “I happen to like water with my meal. It quenches my thirst.”
“Order a drink, Josephine,” he commands, which pisses me off. He adds, “Please. I don’t want to drink to alone.”
“You’re riding a damn motorcycle with me on the back after we’re done here. You shouldn’t be drinking at all,” I snap.
Maceo motions at his huge muscled frame. “A fucking double whiskey isn’t going to faze me. Hell, three double whiskeys aren’t going to crack the surface.”
“Fine,” I concede, which makes him chuckle, before addressing the waitress. “Give me a Maker’s,on the rocks.”
“Fuck me, you’re perfect,” he mumbles to himself, making me blush from the compliment. Yeah, I’m not a weak drinker. I guess a former Navy SEAL—current hardcore biker—would appreciate this quality in me.
“I’ll share my meal if you share yours,” he offers after our waitress retreats with our orders.
“Deal, as long as you let me taste yourgazpachowhen they bring out our appetizers.”
Maceo laughs. “Your Spanish accent is good. Most people butcher the language.”
“Muchas gracias,” I say. “Tengo pratica.”
“Ah!” Maceo grins. “Tu hablas con fluidez.”
I laugh. “Well, I don’t know if I speak Spanish properly or not. I only know what I’ve picked up from living in California. Growing up, my family didn’t have a lot of money, and we lived in a lower income area of L.A. The general population at my school was Latinx. Most of my friends spoke Spanish, and I guess I absorbed it. I know enough to stumble through a conversation and it actually comes in handy in my industry.”
Maceo nods with a chuckle. “Abuelita Luciawould beat me with a wooden spoon if she caught me using the incorrect accent. She would say, ‘Maceo, you’re a Spaniard! Speak correctly.’”
“So, you’re all Spanish?” I ask.
“I’m mostly Spanish. My dad was Spanish, maybe some Portuguese. And my mom was half-Spanish, half-Colombian. How about you?”
“I’ll just round my ancestry up as Nordic.”
He nods. “Well, that explains your fighting spirit—you’ve got Viking in you.”
“And you being a Spaniard explains why you’re trying to conquer everyone,” I fire back.
Maceo lets out a belly laugh, and the sound is too contagious not to join in. “Touché, but I’m not trying to conquer everyone, only someone,” he says, pointedly.
I lean in. “You know, you’re pretty intense and demanding.”
“And you’re pretty standoffish,” he counters. “How about instead of goading each other, we stick to safer topics?”
I wrinkle my nose. “You’re no fun.”
His eyes gleam and he smiles. “Oh, trust me, I’m a hell of a good time. How was your day?”
“Busy. Stressful. A lot to wrap my head around, you know? I did take Hades to the groomers.”
