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I once found my mother hiding in the linen closet with a bottle of wine. She was sitting on the floor taking slugs straight from the bottle. “It really depends on who you are as a person if you’ll do well in a situation like that.” And by a situation like that, I mean handling the chaos of a Riva holiday get-together without losing your shit. I’ve kicked more than one of my cousins’ asses for touching and breaking my stuff. I’ve gotten better in my thirties, though.
“There used to be a Mexican family that lived across the street from us growing up,” Havana starts as I shut off the car’s engine. “I don’t know how many people lived there but the house was always full. There were always cars lining the block and it felt like someone had a birthday or celebration every weekend. They used to bring leftovers to my dad after they found out my mom left,” she says with a grin. “It was like a salve for our wounds. I tried different kinds of foods that I probably never would have tried if it wasn’t for the neighbors.”
Our family is the same way. I’ve never known either of my parents to be stingy. If someone on the streets needed a handout, my father gave them a hand up. If a mother at one of our family get-togethers was overwhelmed by her kids, my mom took them off her hands for a while and kept them busy. My parents are the kindest people I know—I’ll never understand how my father was a ruthless killer during work hours.
“Come inside,” I gesture toward the door. “We can talk more inside.”
Havana climbs out of the vehicle and stares across the expanse of the garage. “Lots of options,” she mumbles when she sees the other three sports cars spread out.
I follow her gaze and nod. “Two of them are my dad’s,” I admit sheepishly. “He’s really into cars now that he’s retired.”
She hesitates for a second before asking, “Was he part of the family or whatever? Is that what he retired from?”
“Yeah,” I usher her inside. “Something like that.” My father ran Lawrence with an iron fist back in his day. Even kids that never met him knew to be afraid of him. “Can I get you something to drink?”
There’s a mudroom just inside the house where you can hang up jackets and take off shoes. A few feet further is the kitchen and Havana is taken aback when we step into it. “Wow,” she whispers. “This is a kitchen fit for a chef. Do you cook a lot?”
I guess I never really took stock of the kitchen I inherited from my parents. It’s larger than some living rooms I’ve been in, but I think that’s because it’s an open concept. And sure, the island is fifteen feet long, but that’s because the people that owned the house prior to my parents had a big family. “I cook every now and then. Never on Sundays though,” I shake my head trying to free myself from the PTSD memories I have from previous attempts. “My mother is in here from sun-up to sundown on Sundays making sauce for the week, chicken cutlets, dicing vegetables, you name it. If you get in her way, you run the risk of getting cut. Not on purpose, of course, but once my mom accidentally stabbed me a little in the side when she turned around to find me behind her.”
Havana’s jaw drops. “Wh-what?”
“I didn’t have to go to the hospital or anything,” I reassure her. “It was just a surface wound. I needed a bandage for a few days, but it healed well enough. But it’s how I got this scar.” I raise my shirt to show her a soft, silvery scar on the left side of my stomach.
When she reaches out to run her fingers across the two-inch scar, I have to hold myself together to keep from shuddering with desire. I’ve imagined her touching me this way for the last six months. If I’m not careful, I’ll jizz in my pants before I even get the chance to be inside her.
“That seems crazy to me,” she mumbles.
I let her fingers linger on the scar for a few moments before encapsulating her wrist with my hand. She jumps a little bit and breathes in sharply. “I think it’s good to know all this, Havana. After all, this is the family you’re going to marry into. All of this will be yours.”
She relaxes after a minute to look at the room around us. The white cabinetry. The updated appliances. The marble countertops. It’s a dream home if I’ve ever seen one. But Havana looks at the house with fresh eyes. This home could be heaven or it could be hell; she isn’t sure which just yet. “You know that I can’t leave my father,” she says after a minute.
I catch a glimpse of her beautiful, thoughtful hazel eyes and I can tell that I’m reaching her. “No, you probably can’t,” I admit with a quick nod of my head. “But we can move him here. There are better doctors in Kansas City anyway and that’s just up the road. There’s plenty of room here or in the suite out back. We could be happy here, Havana.”
“Maybe,” she responds quietly. But there’s her unspoken answer, too.
Maybe not.
10
HAVANA
The sun went down hours ago—before I even made it to Mustangs. Most people are in their beds, dreaming of showing up to work naked or being unprepared for a meeting. I’m perched on the kitchen counter, eating the best grilled cheese of my life.
“There’s no way you made this.” It’s as if Lorenzo didn’t kidnap me from my hometown and bring me to a new city. When he picked me up and set me on the counter to watch him cook, I prepared myself for something vaguely edible but not entirely good. After all, when I asked if he cooked, he told me about hismother’spassion for the hobby. But I was wrong.
Lorenzo snorts in derision. “And who, exactly, made the sandwich if not me? Where do you think they were hiding while I was making you a grilled cheese?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know, but when you find them, send them to my house. I need someone on speed dial to make food like this all the time.”
He patiently smiles as I scarf down the rest of the sandwich. A few minutes ago, he asked if I wanted something to eat. Lorenzo said he’d eaten a large dinner with friends a few hours ago but was happy to make me something. I said a sandwich would do, and he asked if I liked cheese. One thing led to another, and ten minutes later, the most decadent grilled cheese I’d ever had appeared in front of me. If food is the way to a man’s heart, then start calling meMr.Havana Camden.
“Can I ask why you never said yes to a date with me?” Lorenzo asks after I’m halfway through what I would consider my lunch.
My chewing slows as a montage of moments flashes through my head. Lorenzo has always been a respectful customer, but I can’t deny that he’s asked me out more than I thought was proper. I figured he was just overly interested in dating a stripper; it never occurred to me that he might want more.
I swallow the bite in my mouth and linger in the silence for a few moments before answering his question. “House rules, to start,” I reply simply. “It looks bad on the club if the dancers have boyfriends in the crowd. Or if regulars like yourself suddenly become boyfriends. It’s unseemly. It gives other customers the idea that if they try hard enough, they can convince a stripper to go home with them.”
He flinches. If I would have blinked, I would have missed it. “What?” I frown. “It’s true.”
