I laughed despite myself, caught off-guard by how much I needed to hear that—even though I’d never admit it. “Oh, now you tell me.”
He shrugged lightly. “You never asked.”
CHAPTER 37
MARCO
Iused the mug every morning.
Not that I’d admit to it—especially not to Valentina. She’d never let me live it down. But the truth was, it had become one of my favorite things, if not my absolute favorite, which was ridiculous considering I didn’t even like coffee that much. But the smug, bold letters staring up at me every morning—“World’s Best Lawyer”—had somehow turned from a joke into something I genuinely appreciated.
It had been about a week since my birthday. A week since the mug and the grilled cheese.
She’d been distracted lately anyway—something about medical bills. She’d been complaining about them the night before, pacing in front of the window with her phone pressed to her ear.
Apparently, her payments hadn’t gone through at the hospital. She’d spent an hour arguing with the billing department unable to figure out why the payments had stopped. She couldn’t understand the problem.
I could, of course. The payments had stopped because I’d taken care of them myself. After our wedding, I’d quietly reached out to Jacob to find out where Valentina’s mother was beingtreated. It hadn’t taken long to set things straight. I’d handled the balance, arranged for ongoing care, made sure no more medical bills landed on Valentina’s doorstep again.
Not that I had any intention of telling her that. Valentina didn’t handle gratitude easily, and I didn’t want it. I wasn’t even sure why I’d done it, other than it felt right. Necessary. But I wasn’t about to let her know. It was better she kept thinking the hospital had made a clerical error.
That afternoon, my phone buzzed in the middle of a meeting. Valentina.
“Marco, can you pick up Lucia from school today?” she asked abruptly, barely letting me answer. “I’m stuck at the hospital with Isabel. More billing issues. I swear I’m going to lose my mind.”
“Of course,” I said simply. “I’ll handle it.”
“Thank you.” She breathed out in relief, hanging up quickly before I could even respond.
A half hour later, I found myself standing at the gates of Lucia’s elementary school, feeling exactly as out of place as I expected. Other parents eyed me suspiciously, probably trying to figure out who the hell the overly serious guy in the suit was, waiting stiffly with his hands clasped in front of him. I ignored their looks, scanning the crowd of kids for Lucia.
She finally appeared, backpack almost as big as she was, trudging toward me with a scowl. She stopped short when she realized who’d come to get her, glancing around in confusion.
“Where’s my mommy?” she demanded, squinting suspiciously at me. “Or mytía?
“Both stuck at the hospital,” I replied, shifting awkwardly under her glare. “They sent me instead.”
She sighed dramatically, clearly unimpressed. “But I need one of them here.”
“What for?”
“My teacher wants to talk to her. You won’t help.”
I frowned slightly, bending down to her level. “Try me. What happened?”
She hesitated, glancing at the ground. “This girl in my class, she messed up my drawing. With paint. Onpurpose.”
“What drawing?” I asked quietly.
“It was for Abuela,” Lucia muttered, looking down at her shoes.
I paused, studying her carefully. She looked genuinely upset—more than a messed-up drawing really warranted, at least from my perspective. But I knew better than most how something seemingly trivial could mean everything when it mattered personally.
Still, dealing with elementary-school drama wasn’t exactly my area of expertise. My professional life revolved around contracts, negotiations, and occasionally making grown men reconsider their poor choices, not sorting out arguments over ruined artwork.
Then again, how different could it really be?
“I’m not yourtía,” I told her evenly, “but I handle conflicts for a living. I think I can manage this one.”
