Page 46 of Hot Shot

A man of many words. Not.

“So the party’s on Sunday.” I change the subject to alleviate Marco’s obvious discomfort. “What time should I come to start decorating?”

“Party starts at six, right?”

“Right. I’ll come around five? That should be lots of time.”

“Yeah, sounds good. Have you heard back from most of the people we invited?”

“Yes!” I smile. “Only a couple can’t make it.” My smile fades. “I did hear from Beck’s parents with their ‘regrets.’”

“Damn.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. We want it to be a fun evening. Not tense for Beck and Hayden.”

“They haven’t even met Hayden. I wonder if they’ll come to the wedding.”

He looks so worried about this I tip my head to one side and study him. “Family’s important to you, isn’t it?”

“Phhht. I have no family.”

I pucker my lips thoughtfully. “Cade and Beck are your family.”

“Yeah.” He inclines his head in agreement. “I just think that people who have family are lucky and should try to make the best of it and not make each other miserable.”

I nod. I’ve also seen his concern for Julia and her family situation. “I guess that’s a good point. People can take family for granted, thinking they’ll always be there for them, but that’s not always the case.”

“I don’t blame Beck,” he adds. “Not totally, anyway. I know what his life was like as a kid, and just because he was rich didn’t mean he was happy.” He pauses. “If Julia’s parents are like Beck’s . . . well, fuck.”

“They’re good people,” I hasten to assure him. “And they love Julia, I know they do.”

“She’s lucky she has you in her life,” Marco says slowly.

My cheeks heat. “Thanks.”

Julio arrives with our meals, served on brightly colored pottery plates, the wedge-shaped slice of burrito pie accompanied by yellow rice and garnished with shredded iceberg lettuce, chopped tomatoes, and sour cream.

I unwrap cutlery from a cloth napkin, eyeing the food. It doesn’t look bad.

We both dig in at the same time, cutting off a piece of pie and forking it into our mouths.

“It’s good,” I mumble after swallowing.

Marco sighs. “Yeah. It’s okay.” He pokes at a slice of black olive. “This is crap.”

“You don’t like olives?”

“I love olives. But not tasteless ones that come from a can.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Maybe we expect too much,” Marco says and takes another bite. “There’s nothing wrong with this, but it seems . . . ordinary. He’s still using big jugs of taco sauce and canned refried beans.”

I suck briefly on my bottom lip. “I guess it would be more special if it was made with fresher ingredients. And you have a right to your expectations. Whatever they are. It’s your business. If you want to serve great food that gets rave reviews and has people lining up, then that’s what you should have.”

Marco meets my eyes and nods. “You’re right.”

Our gazes hold, and as we sit so close together on the stools at the bar, heat shimmers between us. I curse my weakness where he’s concerned. This physical attraction has to stop. But it’s not stopping, it’s just intensifying, and it isn’t just physical anymore. Every time I see him, I get glimpses of different facets of his personality that surprise me. The fun side of him with his friends. The tender side of him with kids. The empty part of him that I suspect longs for the family he lost and never truly replaced even though he has Beck and Cade. The smart Marco that makes me look inside myself and realize maybe I don’t appreciate my family enough, that even though they kind of make me crazy and make me feel inferior, they’re still my family.

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