Page 33 of Spiced!

“And when he comes down between sets—”

“He doesn’t usually, but if he does, I’ll talk to him.”

“Actually talk to him, B. Not about the dog.”

“The dog is a legitimate topic.”

“The dog is a safe topic. There’s a difference.” She let that sit for a moment. Damn it, I hated when she was right—and she was, honestly, always right. “You know the difference.”

And I did.

That was another thing about Tasha—she never told me anything I didn’t already know. She just said it out loud so I couldn’t keep pretending.

“Saturday,” I said.

“Saturday,” she confirmed. “Text me after.”

“I’m not going to text you after.”

“Alan will text me after. Same result.” She hung up before I could point out that this was a privacy violation, which it was, and neither of them would lose a moment’s sleep over it.

I put my phone down and looked at Gerald on the windowsill.

“She’s right.”

Gerald said nothing, which I chose to interpret as agreement.

Puck climbed from my shoulder and dook’d once, short and certain.

“I’m going, all right? Jesus. You, too? I’m surrounded by traitors.”

Chapter 8

Adrian

Most Mondays were necessary evils, days no one looked forward to but everyone dealt with. The Monday after the Saturday in which a certain vet and I had exchanged texts had a very different feel to it, like the morning after a really good meal when you’re not hungry yet but were already looking forward to the next one.

I realized it at 4 a.m. while standing at the panadería counter, working the first dough of the week. My phone lay on the shelf to my left, where I always put it in case Abuela called; though I knew, deep down, it wasn’t Abuela’s ringtone I kept listening for.

Ignoring the device, I went back to the dough and told myself to focus.

The dough, to its credit, did not comment.

By five-thirty, I had shaped two trays of pan sobao, one batch of conchas, and started on the empanada dough.

I had only picked up my phone four times.

Doña Carmen arrived at six.

She looked at me and looked at the phone and looked back at me.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Buenos días, mi pequeño,” she said as she tied her apron.

Doña Carmen and I had an understanding about early mornings—they belonged to our work, not conversation. Anything that needed saying could wait until the first trays were out of the oven and the coffee had done what coffee was supposed to do.

Still, I couldn’t help the grin at her calling me her “baby boy” despite her being my abuela’s age and us being about as related as Mofongo was to a duck. Still, her affection was as welcome as the smell of the baking bread.