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The door flies open and Marisol Delgado greets me with a big smile. “Mijo! What are you doing standing out here like a telephone pole?”
I don’t have an opportunity to respond before Marisol slaps her hands to my face and pulls me down to kiss both my cheeks. Despite her diminutive frame of just five feet tall, she has never been intimidated by my height.
“Your hair, still so long.” She scrunches my scruffy hair in her hands.
“Shorter than it was last I saw you,” I say with a grin.
Marisol’s dark eyes sparkle and her eyes slide to my cheeks again. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you, mijo.”
Well, that’s one person in my court. Now if she could just convince Isabella that my being here is a good thing.
“Ah, flowers! For Isabella?” Marisol turns around. “Isabella!”
“No, no, they’re for you, Marisol,” I say, holding the lilies out toward the older woman.
Marisol waves her hand and says in a hushed voice. “No, no, no. For Isabella. Come.”
Marisol grabs my arm and pulls me into the house.
I try to ignore the sinking feeling. I purposefully didn’t get Isabella anything because I thought she’d find it annoying or heavy-handed. Now, I’m afraid she’ll think I didn’t get anything for her mother.
“Isabella! Your guest is here!” Marisol’s voice echoes through the open foyer.
I want to tell her that her English has gotten much better. She was working on it when I met her years ago. But that feels… wrong for a white guy to point out.
Isabella appears in the doorway on the right and holy stunner. She’s stunning all the time, but her scrubs don’t show off the curves of her body like this blouse and jeans do. Not to mention her hair isn’t swept into a sensible ponytail, but down. Her curls aren’t as long as they used to be but just as lush and shiny. She’s even wearing a little makeup. Just enough that I can tell, not too much she’s overwhelming her natural beauty.
Ah, shit. This is why we cut it off at the legs all those years ago.
The desire is too intense.
“Hi, Rex.”
“Brought you flowers,” Marisol says, shoving me closer.
Isabella says something admonishing to her mother in Spanish so quickly I can’t make out the words. I know a little but only when spoken slowly. They bicker for a few seconds before Isabella forces another smile. “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”
I hand the flowers over, then hold up the bag of toys. “And this is for Leo.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
Oh, but I did. I’ve missed out on over four years of presents. Birthdays, Christmases, gifts “just because”.
I realize it’s my turn to speak and I haven’t said anything.
Isabella’s eyes are wide. “Um. Well. Leo’s in the living room.”
“That’s… good.”
We stare at each other.
“Ay, Dios mio,” Marisol mutters. I know what she’s thinking.
We’re fools.
“I haven’t told him who you are,” Isabella says in a low voice.
I inhale. I don’t know if that’s better or worse. “Okay.”
