Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

“All right. Here’s to you, Mrs. McQueen.”

We all raise our glasses in unison, though my mom looks like hers is made of lead.

After Vicente takes a sip and makes a small noise of approval, he gestures to the photos on the mantel. “Lovely family you have here. How long have you lived in San Francisco? Some of the pictures look further up the coast.”

She arches a dark brow at him. “We used to live in Gualala. Up Highway One.”

He nods. “Would love to head up there one day. Maybe Violet and I can go, take some photos.”

“We could visit Grandpa Gus and Mimi,” I say excitedly.

My mother doesn’t say anything but she doesn’t look happy. “Since we’re asking questions,” she says. “How long are you in San Francisco for? Violet didn’t seem to know.”

“I’m here for as long as I want. I’m dedicated to photography now and I think the city is a special place to stay.”

“You’re not heading back to Mexico anytime soon?”

He takes her question in stride. “I have no reason to go back.”

“Things tough down there?” She almost sounds like she’s mocking him.

He shrugs and takes another sip of wine. “Not particularly.”

“Violet says you come from a family of farmers.”

“We export avocados,” he says. “But we don’t farm them.”

“Can’t be much money in that,” she muses, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“Mom, have you ever bought an avocado? They’re like ten bucks a pop,” I remind her. “Avocado toast is like currency in this city.”

She ignores me. “So, if you don’t mind my asking, Vicente, what is it that you do? Since you’re not a student at the school and you’re taking lessons from my daughter.”

Jesus. She’s really grilling him. Now I wish Dad was home. Surely he’d go easier on him.

Maybe.

“If you’re wondering how it is that I can afford to live in San Francisco, I’ll just say I have a lot of investments that are slowly paying off. And no, you can’t have the name of my financial advisor. He lives in Mexico City.”

“And where did you live in Mexico?”

“Oh, around. Places you’ve never heard of.”

“Try me.”

“Have you been to Mexico, Mrs. McQueen?” he asks, slowly walking over to her.

I’m about to answer for her and tell him no, but she says, “I have.”

I balk. This is news to me.

He stops a few feet away, wine glass at his lips. “Where did you go?”

She doesn’t take her eyes off of him. I feel like they’re in some sort of sparring war. The overprotective mother and the boyfriend who won’t be intimidated.

Boyfriend.

I have to remind myself that we’re not official yet.

Even though he’s acting one hundred percent like he has a lot of stake in this.

As is my mom.

“The east coast,” she says. “Spent a lot of time in Veracruz.”

“Oh really? Dangerous town nowadays.”

“It was back then, too.” She briefly notices me staring. “Dad was also in Mexico.”

Interesting.

“And what did you do in Mexico?” Vicente asks, his voice lower, eyes searching hers. I have a feeling that he might be trying to get to the bottom of that article. “What took you there?”

“An old friend,” she says.

“Who?” I ask.

“No one you know.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it. “It was a very long time ago. Before you were born.”

“How old was Ben?”

“Three.”

“Did he go with you?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she takes a gulp of wine and breaks the staring contest with Vicente, going over to sit on the couch, her eyes on the TV. Like we were never here at all.

Well, this is awkward.

Vicente looks over at me and gives me a look to say that he tried. And did he ever. Then he looks back at my mom. “I should be off. Thank you so much for the wine.” He finishes the rest of the glass. “Next time I’ll have to ask you all about your tattoos. Especially the one on your leg. The cherry blossom and that moon. Very unique. And the one on your arm. The music notes.”

She glances down at her bicep, the bottom of the music notes just poking out from under her sleeve.

“It almost looks like an old song my father used to sing,” he says softly, as if reliving a memory.

My mother looks at him sharply. That fear again. She really does need new anxiety medication because this is getting a bit ridiculous.

“Goodbye, Mrs. McQueen,” he says, heading out of the living room and back into the hall. I quickly put my glass down on the mantel, shooting my mother the dirtiest of looks, and run after him.

He’s shrugging on his jacket and we don’t speak until we’re both out the door and on the steps.

“I am so sorry,” I cry out, hanging on to his arm. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. Usually she’s nice.”

“I’m sure she is,” he says. “Some people just have off days and a lot of people don’t like it when others drop by unannounced. I’m pretty sure you don’t. That’s part and parcel of your hyper-sensitivity. Leads to you being overwhelmed.”

“Phhfft. My mom isn’t hyper-sensitive. She’s tough as nails.”

He shakes his head. “No, my mirlo, she isn’t. Just because someone looks and acts tough doesn’t mean they aren’t a mess on the inside.”

The name he gave me, mirlo—blackbird—dances in my heart. I try not to trip up over it but I can’t help grinning. “Okay, well, you’re tough. I doubt you’re a mess inside.”

“You’re right,” he says with a cheeky smile. “I’m not a mess. But I can recognize the softness in others. Cut open a weathered leather chair and you’ve got feathers inside.” He looks down the street toward his car. “I should go. I’d still love to have dinner with your family, but I have a feeling that won’t be happening anytime soon.”

“What? No, seriously. My mom is having an off day. Come over tomorrow. I have to head back here to do some work, but if you drop by at like six pm, that’s enough time to have a drink beforehand. You can meet Ben too. Ben’s great.”

“And your father? Is he anything like your mother?”