“You can’t tell me you don’t want to get involved and then wake me up looking like that,” I inform him.
“Like what?” he dares me to tell him.
I take the bait. “Slutty. Asking for it.”
He bursts out laughing, his head tilting back and highlighting the lines of his neck. It makes me want to lick a long, wet line over his Adam’s apple.
I look around, and we’re alone on the beach. “What time is it?”
He takes a seat in the sand next to me, checking his watch. “About five thirty.”
“Holy shit. I was out for a while. Your daughter really tired me out. You’re a champ for doing this every day.”
Dom winces, untying his running shoes and slipping them off along with his socks, wiggling his long toes and burying his bare feet in the sand. “Sorry about that. I told you, you don’t?—”
“Stop telling me what I do and don’t have to do. I had a blast, and that was my first nap inyears. It wasamazing. And there were four of us to tag team, so it was fine. You should really consider getting some help. Like a nanny or something. Or maybe she can hang out with Gloria and Ben after school.”
“No,” he says finally, after long consideration.
“Wow, can’t argue with that logic. You’ve totally convinced me.”
“I really do want to spend the time with her, Lina. It’s okay.”
“Areyou okay?”
“I’m okay,” he says firmly.
I sigh. Not my place, I guess. “Do you know if there’s a dinner plan?”
“Probably, but Tita Gloria is in charge. I’m going to hop in the shower and then go see if they need any help,” he says, standing up and picking up his shoes.
“I’ll go now,” I say, and he reaches out a hand to help me up. Again, I like the look and feel of my hand in his. He seems too, too, which is such a damn shame. I pull my hand away and brush the sand off my legs. “I have a thing or two to teach your daughter about J-Lo.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Hmm,” he says, mouth twitching.
* * *
Gloria puts me and Frankie on salad duty, which involves a lot of confident chopping on Frankie’s part and nervous watching on mine. The children’s knife is a dull plastic but is serrated enough to cause serious damage with the wrong angle and pressure. “Can we turn on some music while we cook?” I ask the room, wincing when it looks like Frankie narrowly avoids a fingertip.
Oliver, who is on meat marinating duty with Georgia, points with his lips and his chin towards the speakers in the corners of the room, his hands currently covered in raw pork juice. “You can connect to those over Bluetooth,” he tells me.
I wipe my hands on my legs and grab my phone, connecting to the speakers and lining up the song I’d been singing in my head all day, since Frankie and my conversation about music from the 2000s.
The first few bars of the song play quietly, J-Lo and Ja-Rule alternating through the intro while I fiddle with the volume. I finally get it to an acceptable level and turn to Frankie. “All right, little lady. This one is calledI’m Real, and it’s a duet by J-Lo and Ja?—”
“Oh,” she says, interrupting my impending diatribe on how this song would go on to influence future rap-pop collaborations and J-Lo’s beef with Mariah and how Ashanti actually probably recorded this song. Frankie tilts her tiny, five-year-old head. “It’s theMurder Remix,” she states matter-of-factly, before launching into a seamless, perfect rendition of J-Lo’s every lyric in the first verse.
I blink repeatedly, my mouth hanging open. I look around the kitchen, and everyone is laughing. “Wh?—”
Frankie croons, eyes closed, head bobbing side to side, hitting every single word.
Dominic opens the back door and glides into the kitchen.
I whirl around and point at him accusingly, but his head is tilted just like his daughter’s was, listening to the music. He sidles up to his daughter, who shrieks, absolutely delighted and currently singing abouttheir insecuritybefore Dominic growls in an almost perfect imitation of Ja-Rule’s voice in the pre-chorus.
“Yeah, yeah,” chants the rest of the kitchen.
I look around, wondering if I’ve entered an alternate universe.
