Page 161 of Hope & Harmony

I leaned against the kitchen entry, taking her in. Her back was to me, so I let my gaze linger on her round cheeks peeking out of the bottom of her underwear before drifting up to her silky hair, tangled in a nest at her crown. That shot a pleased thrill to my belly, knowing I’d been the cause of that mess. Yeah, I liked that.

“How old are you, Selena Cruz?”

She peered at me over her shoulder as she cooked something on the stove. “Twenty-six,” she mouthed, not saying the words aloud. “You?”

“I’ll be thirty in a couple months.”

“S-s-still twenty-nine, though.”

“Mm-hmm.” I approached her, leaning a hip on the counter beside her. “I like your optimistic look on things. I’m over here prematurely kissing my twenties goodbye.”

She smiled and pointed her spatula at the pan. “Eggs?”

I frowned at what she was cooking. “That looks like a whole lot more than just eggs.” I slid my hand around her waist. “Whatcha cooking, mama?”

Lips rubbing together, she hesitated, and I felt her gathering herself. “It’s a quick Spanish tortilla. My abuela gave me her secret shortcut.”

Her stutter was there, but I wanted her to keep talking. To feel comfortable enough with me not to let anything stop her from expressing herself.

I kissed her shoulder. “Honored you’re making your abuela’s recipe for me. She alive?”

She shook her head. “Died a few years ago.”

“Sorry about that, but I’m glad you have her recipe.”

Turning, she rubbed her nose along my jaw. “A lot of them.” Using her spatula, she pointed at a small wooden box. “They’re in there.”

“You trust me to look?”

She arched a brow. “Are you going to steal them?”

I chuckled. “Nah. I wouldn’t know what to do with them. I’m not what you’d call a chef. But I’m going to look at them because I love this kind of thing. Generation after generation, passing down secrets.”

I thumbed through her recipes, warmth permeating my chest at her abuela’s handwriting and the splashes of food on the well-worn cards. This was history here.

By the time I’d gotten through looking at all of them, our midnight breakfast was done, and Selena was dishing up slices of tortilla on plates.

We sat at her kitchen bar, my hand on her bare thigh, her shoulder bumping mine.

I took a bite of my tortilla and chewed, savoring the salty eggs and potatoes. “This is legit, Selena. Abuela knew what she was doing.”

Her giggle was sweet as sugar. “She did.”

I speared another bite, then another, enjoying every single thing about these stolen minutes. It bothered me more than it should have that that’s all they were. Moments that were mine, but only until I was forced to give them back.

“I looked you up,” I told her. “You’re a big fucking deal, huh?”

A flush rose on her cheeks, so pretty I wanted to scoop her up and take her back to bed. But not more than I wanted her words.

“I don’t know about that.”

“You are. I feel pretty foolish for not knowing exactly who you are. Iris said you write music for her, but she didn’t say you’ve written for alotof other people, too.”

Her shoulder lifted, and I had to suppress a groan. I’d thought we were past the shrugging stage.

I grabbed the underside of her stool and swiveled her to face me. She yelped, her brown eyes going wide with surprise.

“Marco!”

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