Page 32 of Spinning Out Of Control

Kira’s right about the food, too. An army of servers bring two fresh salads, a plate of empanadas, branzino, and three different steaks to the table along with a variety of sauces and chimichurri. Except for the fish–which I avoid like the plague–there isn’t a single dish that doesn’t explode with flavor. I take a bite of the perfectly medium-rare strip steak with salsa criolla, the tender meat melting on my tongue.

“I told you you’d like the food. Though I have to admit, I thought all you British people preferred boiled potatoes and pudding. I was a little afraid that seasoning might cause you to combust,” Kira says, breaking the silence we’ve been eating in. I smile, loving the sound of her voice even when she’s fucking with me.

Especially when she’s fucking with me.

“It may be true that the British aren’t known for their exciting cuisine, but I’ve lived in California for a long time. It would be a tragedy if I didn’t pick up an appreciation for Latin American food in all those years.”

“The tragedy is that you people pillaged half the world for spices but never figured out how to use them.”

The quip catches me off guard in the best way. I throw my head back as I laugh, not caring if I disturb the other diners. I laugh so long that my stomach cramps and my eyes begin to water. When I catch my breath and wipe a tear from the corner of my eye, I find Kira looking back at me with a smile on her face.

Not a smirk, not a lift of her lips that she’s trying to hide. A full-blown smile that reaches all the way to her sparkling eyes. The sight of it nearly knocks me off my chair. It’s been months since that smile with those damn white teeth and her pretty pink mouth have been pointed my way, and I want to savor it. I’m tempted to pull out my phone to take a picture and set it as my background.

Fuck, I’m tempted to lean forward and kiss her, to taste the lime and peppers on her lips. I shake my head, clearing my increasingly inappropriate thoughts.

“Well, you know that I’m a Brit. Purebred, unfortunately. My father always claimed we had Tudors in our lineage, but I couldn’t be fucked to look it up. What about you? Where’s your family from?”

She tilts her head, giving me an almost sympathetic look.

“You don’t have to do this, Warren. We don’t have to play the ‘get to know each other’ game.”

“Ren,” I correct. “And come on, it will be fun. We can go question for question. You and your brother both speak Spanish. Is that a coincidence or a family thing?”

She nibbles on the corner of her lip, worrying theplump flesh before picking up her glass and tossing back the last of her martini.

“I’m a bit of a mutt. IronDad has Irish ancestors, but he’s as All-American as they come. He’s from a long line of cowboys and ranchers. Guys who came to California looking for gold and all that. Pops’ side of the family is all Polish and Jewish. He actually grew up here in Manhattan. Went to NYU before moving to Tennessee to work with the Knoxville Crushers back in the nineties. I think he was the first person in his family to ever settle down with a gentile. And Tía Camila is Argentinian. So, there you have it, my 23 and me.”

I don’t think she’s said so many words that weren’t meant to be insults in a row since the wedding. She’s softer when she talks about her family. There’s a gentleness to her tone that makes my stomach flutter.

“That’s where your dads met, right? Your Pops worked for the team that…IronDad played for?”

She nods, closing her lips around a bite of smashed potato on her fork.

“And your Tía Camila? How does she fit into all this?”

“That’s your third question, Warren. Do I get three, too?”

“Ren. And you can have as many questions as you’d like, love. You don’t even have to answer mine if you don’t want to.”

The server drops off another round of martinis, andKira picks out an olive and pops it into her mouth, chewing slowly before answering.

“Tía Camila has been my Pop's best friend since Hebrew School. They grew up on the same street in the Lower East Side, went to NYU together, moved to Tennessee together. I’m sure you put two and two together that my dads are gay men. They couldn’t exactly get each other pregnant, but they desperately wanted kids. You were around in the nineties, I’m sure you remember that things were different back then. They tried to adopt, but even with IronDad’s fame and money they kept getting shot down. So eventually, they took Tía Camila up on an offer she’d been making for years. She had the eggs and the uterus, and she carried and gave birth to Dean. Then I came a few years later.”

“Got it. So your Tía is–”

“Biologically, she’s our mother. But we never called her mom. She wanted to be our Tía. She didn’t parent us, but she didn’tnotparent us either. She’s always been there and has always loved us just as much as our dads. Camila is like…she’s like a cool older sister who buys you beer and whoops your ass when you’re out of line. When she offered to carry us, the only condition she gave my dads was that she get to teach Dean and I Spanish and that we be connected to our culture. That was an obvious no-brainer for them. She took us to see her grandparents in Buenos Aires every year until they passed away while I was in college.”

“Are you close with her?”

“Very. She’s our biggest fan. She never misses a Crushers home game; she likes to hang out with the WAGs up in the suites and sling back beers while she cheers on Dean. And she takes all my classes. Not always live, because she refuses to get up before eight in the morning. But Tía Camila is a Spin Sync social media star. She’s the self-appointed head of the Spin Sync Ratchet Aunties Club.”

I nod, appreciating every nugget of information Kira is willing to give me about herself. The way she speaks about her family, with such reverence and appreciation, like she knows how truly lucky she is makes me fall a little harder for her. Her tough exterior is wildly sexy, but this softer side is just as beautiful. I want more of it. I want every side, every angle, every mood of Kira’s. I watch as she digs her fork into the plate of fish, and I must not do a very good job of hiding my grimace, because she rolls her eyes as she chews.

“Alright, my turn. What the fuck is up with the fish thing, Warren? Did a goldfish murder your family or something? It’s so weird.”

Of course, that would be her first question. I want to know about her life, her family, her heart, and she wants to know why I have an aversion to seafood. I snort and bring a bite of salad to my mouth, chewing slowly before answering.

“My mum was an awful cook. Truly terrible. She also couldn’t keep a chef around to save her life. Couldn’t keep anyone working in the home, really. Shewas mean and particular and quick to fire someone over the smallest indiscretion–a speck of dust on the mantle, toast that had spent a second too long in the toaster, anything could set her off.

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