And as if on fucking cue, Tariq and Rocco walked into my apartment.
I covered my eyes with the back of my hand, mortified. “Oh my gawd, José, you’re a mess.”
He just sipped on his wine, unbothered. “Oh good, more of the crew’s here.” I didn’t miss that he gave Tariq a very long look. The boy put his time in at the gym, that was for sure.
I also didn’t miss that Rocco was looking like a six-foot-tall Italian-Irish sex-fever dream in my living room and presently taking a thorough look at my LV-knits-clad ass.
“Nena, this is nice, you got a lot of space.” José snatched me out of staring at Rocco like a weirdo. I looked at him and nodded as he walked around my place.
“It was supposed to be an apartment for two.” I laughed humorlessly, and got various versions of “poor Julia” smiles. “But fortunately, the rent isn’t too bad and I could keep the place.” I lifted a shoulder, taking the glass of wine Salome slid over the counter.
José’s face shadowed for a moment at my words. He’d told us that he left New York City after his partner of over ten years had passed away. Too many memories. I gave his hand a squeeze but he bounced back quickly.
“Well, regardless of the circumstances, here we are.” He waved a hand at the lot of us. “The Gotham Exiles repping NYC. The Republic of Texas better be ready.” We all laughed at that and moved to clink glasses.
After a moment, I pointed at the spot where Rocco was standing while the others chatted on the couch. “Mr. Quinn.” I dipped my head and almost curtsied because I was a full-on dweeb now.
He lifted a shoulder, a small smile on his lips as he held a bottle of cold beer. He was in his work clothes still. Gray slacks and a navy shirt with the sleeves folded up to his elbows. I gripped the counter behind me with both hands to keep from sighing.
He was handsome and he was an extremely bad idea.ThatI needed to stay clear on.
After another moment of awkward silence, he pushed off the wall and went to wash his hands. His big body taking up space in my kitchen.
“How can I help with dinner?”
My eyebrows almost flew off my forehead at his question. I took another sip of my wine, assessing him, and came over to where he was. “You cook?”
Shit, proximity was not going to help me keep it together. The man smelled like lemon verbena and sweat, and the combo was really loosening joints that needed to stay strong if I wanted to keep my job.
He looked at me and it was like he was figuring out a really hard question. I could relate.
“I do. I’m pretty decent at it.” He gestured to the cilantro, onion, garlic, and tomatoes I’d pulled out of the fridge. “You making sofrito?”
Okay, that shouldn’t have made me gasp, but it did. I nodded and started moving, since it was getting close to six thirty and people were going to get hungry. “You got Caribbean food at your coach’s?”
He looked surprised. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do.” I nodded, wondering how low Rocco was on the priority lists of the people in his life that he felt special when I recalled something he’d told me the day before.
“Coach’s actually a really great cook. And he always recruited me to help. So I can give you a hand.”
I pointed at the stove as I talked. “I was going to make a moro de guandules con coco and some pollo guisado.” I walked around him to open the fridge and pull out the chicken thighs I’d gotten at the market on my way home.
When I popped up, he was not even pretending to be looking anywhere but at my ass. And, of course, there went the butterflies swooping around in my belly. Yeah, this plan to keep it professional was working out great.
I cleared my throat and tried my best to get my body temperature under control while he stared at me like he had all the time in the world. I almost asked him if he was trying to mess with me, then realized he was waiting for instructions.
Get it together, Julia.
I gestured to the pile of ingredients on the counter. “You work on the sofrito and I’ll start the rice.” I wasn’t super confident he knew what he was doing, but I had to get his eyes on some food and off me before one of us got maimed in this kitchen.
But within a few minutes of working in companionable silence, he’d chopped up the veggies and was frying up tomato paste in olive oil to make the sofrito, exactly like my abuela taught me. Rocco just kept shattering all my assumptions.
“Damn, you do know what you’re doing.” I wasn’t joking; he’d chopped that onion and tomato perfectly and was mixing them into the hot tomato paste like a pro.
He smiled shyly as he worked. “I spent a lot of time with Coach and his wife during high school and in college. I told you he was Boricua.”
He tried to sound upbeat but I didn’t miss the tinge of sadness whenever he talked about college and high school.
