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“They won’t care. All the couples fool around in here.”
“You’re making that up.”
“It’s tradition.” I move back in. “Now give me a kiss, beauty. Something to tide me over.”
Her eyes dart to the opening to ensure no one’s there. Then she threads her fingers through my hair and—damn—there’s nothing buther lush mouth and the sultry sweep of her tongue. Dee’s taste is a wicked sweet heat that spins my head and sends my entire system into overdrive. Her breasts crush against my chest. I slip my hands beneath her sweater and cup the round, meaty curves of her behind tucked into tight denim.
“Micah Anthony!”
We jerk apart and my eyes swerve to Mama T’s grin.
“Busted.” Maria laughs.
Dee’s cheeks flush with embarrassment while she tugs her sweater back into place. She never experienced this as a teenager, getting caught in the act of a steamy kiss and furtive grope. Our previous relationship had been secret, and now that we’re out in the open, at least with the family, I make no attempt to keep my desire for her under wraps.
“She’s irresistible,” I say, treating myself to one last kiss.
Dee glares at me. “I’m sorry you saw that, Mama T.”
“Bah.” Rita Torres cuts off her needless apology. “Passion is good for the heart, mi hija. Do you know how many times I’ve caught Vittorio and Isabelle in here? Or James and Maria?”
“Or,” Maria interjects, “the time we caught you and Papa.”
“Hush up.” Mama T smiles wistfully and swats her daughter with the dish towel.
“See?” I mouth to Dee. When she attempts to maintain her scowl, I add, “Your fault for being so sexy.” That effectively coaxes her mouth into a one-sided grin.
When we return to the kitchen, the women work on storing the leftovers, and I join Victor and James at the sink.
“Dumb rookie.” Victor snorts. “Getting caught your first time.” He tosses the sponge to me. “You wash.”
Here, no one cares about my celebrity. I’m just Mick. The way I like it.
After the kitchen is tidied, we bring the hot chocolate, Mexican coffee, and apple empanadas out to the family room where the kids are watching a Disney movie and Dwayde’s playing a sword fighting game on his iPad. I settle next to Dee on the couch and put my arm around her shoulders. She leans over to watch Dwayde in action. Before long he’s showing her how to capture the gems to score points.
With his guard down, I can see the tiny threads interweaving, the connection starting to form. Not between client and lawyer but between nephew and aunt. They’re both laughing at her eager, yet failed attempts when the high pitch of Mason’s cry crackles through the baby monitor.
Dee’s smile collapses and her palm moves to her stomach. The kids are oblivious, but all adult eyes turn to us. I read their compassion.
“I thought he might sleep a bit longer,” Maria says apologetically.
“It’s fine.” The same sturdy words Dee said to me in the car don’t hold up to the tremor in her voice.
“Should we go get him?” I ask to give her the opportunity to deal with this moment privately.
She nods and tells Dwayde she’ll be right back. I take her cold hand in mine. Mama T gives us an encouraging smile that’s tinged with sadness. When we reach Mason’s room, I stop to cradle Dee’s cheeks between my palms and give in to my protective urge to whisk her away rather than have her face the reminder. “If you’re not ready—”
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. This is my family and Mason is a part of that. I have to do this.”
She’s right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch the cloud of grief move across her amber eyes. With great reluctance, I release her and open the door.
Mason’s wails and the smell of baby powder hit me all at once. I’ve smelled that scent and heard his cries a hundred times, but never before have they threatened to buckle my knees.
Dee stays rooted on the threshold taking deep, audible breaths as I manage to cross to the crib and lift the screaming five-month-old onto my shoulder, and pat his back. “It’s alright, little man.”
Mason chokes out a few more cries before he quiets and snuggles his chubby body into me. I think of the baby we lost. Would it have been a boy or girl? Have brown or golden eyes? Would our child have grown up to be shy or outgoing? Studious or the class clown? An athlete? A writer? A lawyer? A future president? The possibilities are endless. The guilt gripping.
I shake my head and focus my attention back to Dee, who still hasn’t ventured into the room.I have to do this, she’d said. I clear my throat and attempt to get her inside.
