“Are you his girlfriend?” Isabel asks bluntly.
“Isabel,” I hiss. “Não a interrogues,”don’t interrogate her.
Isabel ignores me completely. “What? It’s a simple question; you’ve never brought a girl home before.”
Liv takes it in stride. She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t look to me for rescue. She just meets Isabel’s eyes, her shoulders set. “I’m his friend,” Liv says, her tone light but her eyes steady. “For now, at least. I guess we’ll see if I survive the family dinner.”
Isabel grins, immediately approving. “You’ve got jokes. Good—you’ll need them in here.” Meanwhile, there’s a prickle forming at the base of my spine at the word “friend.” I know I thought it was easier not to label her or make her decide right now, but there’s a part of my brain that hates that, too.
Isabel turns to go inside, and Liv steps forward, until I catch her wrist and pull her gently back against me. My mouth finds the curve of her ear, close enough that only she can hear. “Be careful, gatinha,” I murmur, voice low enough to stir the hair at her neck. “You’d better be ready to see just howfriendlyI’m feeling later when you’re choking on my cock.”
Liv inhales quickly, the sound going straight south. Then she spins so we’re face-to-face, those eyes filled with desire and mischief. Her gaze lingers on my mouth, a teasing glint surfacing. “I should warn you, I’m not great at pretending I don’t want you. So, really,youshould be careful, or I might forget you want me on my best behavior.”
I snuff out her words with a huffing laugh, splaying my hand on her lower back, pulling her hips into mine so she can feel what she’s doing to me. “I never said I wanted you to behave, Olivia,” I say, bending to pull her earlobe between my teeth. Her body arches into me further, and my head spins. I’m drunk on her. “Maybe I like it better when you don’t.”
The gleam in her eye intensifies, a smile so bright spreading across her perfect lips, that I can’t resist lowering to press a chaste kiss to them. “You’re getting yourself worked up, baby. Do I need to take you to your car and—”
“For the love of god, don’t finish that sentence,” I interrupt because if she says what I think she was going to, then I mightnot be able to control myself. I’m suddenly kicking myself for tempting the temptress.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Jay.” She bops my nose and presses a kiss to my cheek while I will my body to calm the fuck down. She’s right, I brought this on myself, and I should know better.
Then a loud noise echoes from inside the house, taking both of our attention. “Guess that’s our cue,” she says, looking over her shoulder.
“Yeah.” I press my mouth to her temple before stepping back, letting the chilly air slip between us again, cooling my heated skin. Thankfully, I manage to get myself under control again before we head inside.
The noise swells as soon as we cross the threshold.
Warm kitchen air drifts toward us, scents of roasted garlic, and something sweet caramelizing in the oven. The scent wraps around me before the door even closes, thick with memory. My boots sink into the old rug in the entryway, the same one my mother refuses to throw out, no matter how many years it’s been frayed along the edges. Somewhere deeper in the house, a baby starts to cry, only to be drowned out by laughter that rolls from the kitchen like music.
Liv follows, eyes wide, shoulders brushing mine. Our hands link again, and she squeezes once, grounding herself.
Christmas garlands hang along the banister, and fairy lights reflect off framed photos that line the hallway—me in a football jersey, before I realized I’m not a player but a photographer, my sisters at their weddings, my nieces and nephews with icing on their faces at a party.
“Meu filho!” My mother appears, apron dusted with flour, hair escaping its pins, cheeks flushed from the stove. She’s crossing the space in three strides, arms open. The smell of her—rosewater and butter—hits before her hands do. She pressesher palms to my face, voice breaking on a laugh that’s half sob. “You’re thinner. Always thinner.”
Her hug is all warmth and pressure. I breathe in home, the stew simmering, the faint tang of dish soap, the citrus from a bowl of oranges on the counter, and it fills every empty corner of me.
“Hey, Mama,” I sigh. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You too, my baby. You’ve stayed away too long,” she murmurs, then lets me go, holding me at arm’s length to look me over again.
I check the room for my father. “Dad in the yard?”
She nods. He isn’t one for cooking, and he usually spends the beginning of family gatherings in the yard, finding something random to do. “He’s fixing the crib for the baby.” Like I said. He’s a solitary man, but adores his family with everything he is. Where my mom is a homemaker and feeder, my dad likes to make things and sit in the quiet with his family. Not something that happens often when we’re all together, though.
When she lets go, her gaze shifts past my shoulder. Liv stands at the threshold, shoes still on. The hallway light catches on the edge of her smile.
My mother’s face brightens immediately. “Ah,” she says, voice laced with affection. “This must be Olivia.”
Liv startles a little, her hand fluttering in a shy half-wave. “Hi, Mrs. Oliviera.”
“Sofia,” my mom corrects gently, already reaching for her. She pulls Liv into a hug that leaves flour smudges on her sleeve. “You’re so beautiful. Come, come in. You must be freezing.”
The noise swells again the deeper into the house we move, my mother instantly distracted by the stove—my sisters calling from the dining room, their husbands chatting in the living room, kids chasing one another across the hall.
Carina, the middle sister, appears from the kitchen, spotting me immediately. “He’s home!” she announces, and before I can blink, her daughters, my twin nieces Eva and Clara, barrel into my legs, shrieking my name.
Their small hands are sticky with something sugary; they smell like syrup and shampoo. I crouch, laughing, letting them climb me. “You’re both getting so big. Carina, what are you feeding them?”
