“Woo!” my dad shouted. “Spanked.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Cary shot back, “taking advantage of an invalid.”
“I’m crying a river here.”
Cary looked at me in the doorway and winked. I loved him so much in that moment I couldn’t stop myself from crossing over to him and pressing a kiss to his bruised forehead.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Thank me with dinner. I’m starving.”
I straightened. “I got the goods to make enchiladas.”
My dad looked at me, smiling, knowing I’d need his help. “Yeah?”
“When you’re ready,” I told him. “I’m going to grab a shower.”
Forty-five minutes later, my dad and I were in the kitchen rolling cheese and store-bought rotisserie chicken—my little cheat to save time—into lard-soaked white corn tortillas. In the living room, the CD changer slipped in the next disk and Van Morrison’s soulful voice piped through the surround sound speakers.
“Oh yeah,” my dad said, reaching for my hand and tugging me away from the counter. “Hum-de-rum, hum-de-rum, moondance,” he sang in his deep baritone, twirling me.
I laughed, delighted.
Using the back of his hand against my spine to keep his greasy fingers off me, he swept me into a dance around the island, both of us singing the song and laughing. We were making our second revolution when I noticed the two people standing at the breakfast bar.
My smile fled and I stumbled, forcing my dad to catch me.
“You got two left feet?” he teased, his eyes only on me.
“Eva’s a wonderful dancer,” Gideon interjected, his face arrested in that implacable mask I detested.
My dad turned, his smile fading, too.
Gideon rounded the bar and entered the kitchen. He’d dressed for the occasion in jeans and a Yankees T-shirt. It was a suitably casual choice and a conversation starter, since my dad was a die-hard Padres fan.
“I hadn’t realized she was such a good singer, as well. Gideon Cross,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand.
“Victor Reyes.” My dad waved his shiny fingers. “I’m a bit messy.”
“I don’t mind.”
Shrugging, my dad took his hand and sized him up.
I tossed the dish towel to the guys and made my way over to Ireland, who was positively glowing. Her blue eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” I said, hugging her carefully. “You look gorgeous!”
“So do you!”
It was a fib, but I appreciated it anyway. I hadn’t done anything to my face or hair after my shower, because I knew my dad wouldn’t care and I hadn’t expected Gideon to show up. After all, the last time I’d heard from him had been when he’d said he would meet me at Dr. Petersen’s office.
She looked over at the counter where I’d dumped everything. “Can I help?”
“Sure. Just don’t count calories in your head—it’ll explode.” I introduced her to my dad, who was much warmer to her than he was to Gideon, and then I led her to the sink, where she washed up.
In short order, I had her helping to roll the last few enchiladas, while my dad put the already chilled Dos Equis Gideon had brought into the fridge. I didn’t even bother to wonder how Gideon knew I was serving Mexican food for dinner. I only wondered why he’d invest the time to find out when it was very clear he other things to do—like ditch his appointments.
My dad went to his room to wash up. Gideon came up behind me and put his hands on my waist, his lips brushing over my temple. “Eva.”
I tensed against the nearly irresistible urge to lean into him. “Don’t,” I whispered. “I’d rather we didn’t pretend.”
His breath left him in a rush that ruffled my hair. His fingers tightened on my hips, kneading for a moment. Then I felt his phone vibrate and he released me, backing away to look at the screen.
“Excuse me,” he said gruffly, leaving the kitchen before answering.