Page 66 of Faking It For Real

Exhausted, I eventually collapsed into a lawn chair beside Mia, who handed me a steaming mug of something that smelled like chocolate and spices.

"My aunt Lucia's special hot chocolate," she explained. "Family recipe."

Our fingers brushed as I took the mug, sending a now-familiar warmth through me that had nothing to do with the hot drink. In the glow of the string lights hanging overhead, Mia looked magical—her cheeks flushed from the cool evening air, her eyes bright with happiness.

"Thank you for bringing me today," I said quietly. "This has been... really special."

"Thank you for coming," she replied, her voice equally soft. "They all love you, you know. My mom's already planning what to feed you next time."

Next time. It seemed like a promise of something beyond our arrangement.

Chapter 16: Ethan

The kitchen of Mia's family home buzzed with activity as I found myself wrist-deep in masa, trying to follow Aunt Carmen's rapid-fire instructions for tamale assembly. I'd been at it for nearly an hour, and while my technique had improved from "complete disaster" to merely "endearingly clumsy," I was enjoying every minute.

"No, like this," Aunt Carmen demonstrated again, her weathered hands expertly spreading the corn dough onto the husk with perfect thickness. "You use too much."

"Lo siento. I'll try again."

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she smiled broadly. "Ah, you speak Spanish!"

"Very little," I admitted with a self-deprecating smile.

This admission seemed to delight her even more than my tamale efforts. She called out to the other women in the kitchen, announcing my linguistic attempt with the pride of a teacher whose student had finally grasped a difficult concept.

Elena appeared at my side, wiping her hands on her apron. "You've been learning Spanish?" she asked, her expression a mixture of surprise and pleasure.

I felt my cheeks warm. "Just a few phrases. I wanted to make an effort."

Elena studied me for a moment, then patted my arm with motherly affection. "That means a lot."

Before I could respond, I became aware of a presence behind me. Turning, I found Mia's grandmother—Abuela Navarro—scrutinizing me with sharp, knowing eyes. Though small in stature, she radiated an authority that commanded respect.

"Your boyfriend," she said to Mia, who had just entered the kitchen, "is handsome but skinny. He needs to eat more.

Mia rolled her eyes affectionately. "Abuela, he eats plenty. You should see him after hockey practice."

Abuela made a dismissive noise and reached up—way up—to pat my cheek. Her hand lingered for a moment as she studied my face with surprising intensity.

"He has a good heart," she declared finally, nodding once as if confirming something to herself.

Then she turned to a nearby counter, loading a plate with food and pressing it into my hands with a firm instruction I didn't need translated: Eat.

As I obediently sampled the offering (some kind of sweet fried pastry that melted in my mouth), I caught Mia watching me from across the kitchen, a soft expression on her face that made my heart stutter.

"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," she smiled, but her eyes said otherwise. "You just fit in here. It's nice."

It was just a simple comment, but it lodged itself somewhere deep inside me. She saw it too: I fit here. In this kitchen, brimming with warmth and happy chaos, surrounded by people who treated me like family after only a day. The difference was palpable compared to my parents' home—a place of polite distances, measured conversations, and rare, hesitant touches.

Elena interrupted my thoughts by shooing me out of the kitchen. "Go, go! You've worked enough. Gabriel wants to talk to you."

I raised an eyebrow at Mia, who shrugged. "Dad likes to interrogate my boyfriends. Consider it a rite of passage."

"Should I be worried?" I asked, only half-joking.

"Nah," she grinned. "Just don't mention his favorite team losing the championship back in '17. He's still bitter."

---