“Não há problema.”
Her mouth hinges open. “You speak Portuguese.”
“Falo um pauco de português.” My vocab’s not great, but my accent is solid. “Você está surpreso?”
All I’ve just said is that I do speak a little; then I asked if she’s surprised.
But the way she just shivered reminds me of what Enzo used to say through our long hours of Portuguese lessons.
Girls love guys who speak a Latin-based language. He grinned when he said it, jabbing me in the ribs. Rolling your Rs gets ‘em wondering what else you can do with your tongue.
Hazel sits speechless, her jaw hanging open, blue eyes fixed on my mouth. Maybe Enzo had a point.
“Me dê um minuto para ler,” I continue. I repeat it in English, since I’m not even sure I just said that correctly. “Just give me a sec to read through these.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“’Fraid not.” I skim the instructions, missing at least a third of the words, but I get the gist. “Had a cellmate whose mom was Brazilian. We had a lot of time to kill behind bars, so he took it upon himself to teach me.”
“You’re serious right now.”
“Yep.” I love the look of shock on her face. “Could you hand me that Allen wrench?”
Snapping her mouth shut, Hazel gives me the tool. “You never cease to amaze me.”
“Amaze or arouse?” Ignoring her huff of indignation, I start piecing the wood together. The craftsmanship is outstanding. Gripping a thick piece of wood, I join it together with another one. “Snug fit. A sign they’re well made.”
“Good. That’s—good.” She chews on a tater tot, moaning a little. Guess she’s really into tots.
“Let’s see,” I murmur, doing my best to translate the instructions. “Slide the male end into the female one and then…thrust?” That can’t be right. “I don’t know the verb for twist. Maybe that’s it?”
“Mmhm.” Hazel looks flushed from the heat. “Want me to turn off the music so you can concentrate?”
I hadn’t noticed the music, but now that I do— “You’re listening to Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s Get It On’ while building cribs?”
She blushes and eats some more tater tots. “I misunderstood the playlist when I downloaded it.”
The song comes to an end and another one starts. It takes me a second to place George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex.”
When I look up at Hazel, she’s blushing again. “What sort of playlist did you download exactly?”
“I didn’t read closely enough,” she admits. “Turns out it’s called ‘Baby Making Music.’ I just read the baby part and?—”
“God, you’re adorable.” Fighting a smile, I connect two more sections of crib together. The fit on this next one feels a little too tight, and it takes me some wrangling and swearing.
“Could you not do that?” She crosses her bare legs in front of her. “I appreciate the help, but I’m trying to make the nursery a no-cursing zone.”
“Sure, yeah. That makes sense.” She’s probably read all the baby-raising books. “Golly darn this flippin’ hunk of pine.”
“Thank you.” Eating a tot, she swipes a hand over her brow. “I should call the furnace guy again. Are you doing okay?”
It is pretty hot in here. “Mind if I take off my shirt?”
“Your shirt?” She stops with a tater tot halfway to her lips. A glob of ranch drips off the tip. “Be my guest.”
“Thanks.” Whipping my T-shirt over my head, I toss it in the corner.
Hazel releases a soft little whimper. When I look up she’s furiously munching a tot.
