Page 117 of Wild Pitch
I give the word a try but I’ve never sounded more Texan than until this moment.
The older man laughs. “Don’t even try again, son. You’re giving me secondhand embarrassment.”
“Sorry.” I cringe before bending down to put on my shoes. “Well, thank you so much for your hospitality. I’ll get out of your hair now.”
“Nonsense, what kind of host would I be if I don’t feed you?” He points at the stool by the counter. “Sit.”
“Yes, sir.” I do as I’m told. A second later I realize I’m being a terrible guest. “Um, sorry. Can I help you with anything?”
“Yes, with not pronouncing the wordarepain my presence again.” He laughs all by himself, and I don’t mind that it’s at my expense. His English is pretty damn awesome, whereas I only speak the one language with a very heavy accent. As hisamusement ebbs, he straightens and asks, “Wait, any dietary restrictions?”
“None.”
“Good, good.”
Grabbing a plate, he preps something on it with his back to me. Last he heaps eggs and bacon on it. And when I say heaps I mean it, the man limps a little before setting a mountain of food before me.
I gape.
“That—” he points at the white, flat bread-looking-but-not-quite thing, “is an arepa. It’s made of cornflour and I filled it with cheese.”
My stomach throws off a creaking sound straight out of a horror movie. “Wow, thank you. This looks amazing.”
“Tuck in.” Grunting, he turns away and limps back to the kitchen to fix himself a plate.
I pick up a fork and ask, “Is your ankle doing better, sir?”
He snorts. “It’s just doing. I can’t wait to get back to the game—pickleball, though. Nothing professional.”
“But it’s important to you, right? Your daughter mentions her dad’s pickleball games all the time.”
“Does she?” He’s done fixing his plate and walks back around, relying on the full cast around his leg. I wait for any sign that he needs help, figuring that helping unprompted would tick him off. He has the same stubborn set to his face as his daughter.
Once he’s safely sitting beside me is when I finally put a forkful of food in my mouth. I don’t know what he put on these eggs, but the taste is better than any I’ve had before. I watch him pick up the bread-look-alike in his hand and I do the same.
“So, what’s going on between you and my daughter?”
I choke.
Calmly, he slides a glass of orange juice toward me. Ruthless.
The juice unfortunately helps loosen my throat way too quick, and I’m forced to answer a question I don’t have clarity on. “I’m not sure,” I admit.
As he chews, he watches my face like he’s looking for something. “But it’s not nothing. My daughter wouldn’t bring any random guy to my home, no matter how many stalkers are behind him.”
Right, she did fill him in on the reason to get his permission in the first place.
“I can’t speak for her,” I start carefully, “but I really like her.”
“Like her?”
“Likelike her,” I confirm.
“And does she know that?”
I drink some more of the juice, hoping it cools my face down because I really shouldn’t be thinking about how I essentially ate her mouth under his roof.
“I haven’t had the chance to tell her yet.”
