Page 70 of Wild Hit
“Let’s do it.” She jumps from the edge of the bed, all serious and determined, as though this was more a chore than something she’s obviously been wanting for who knows how long.
I’m supposed to finish getting ready in the next fifteen minutes, but who cares if I’m late for Dad’s party? That’s just buying myself a moment longer of peace.
Shifting a little toward her, I explain, “First of all, I want to share with you the reason I wear makeup sometimes.”
“Okay.” She nods like we’re in a classroom.
“It’s not because I look prettier with it or to impress other people,” I continue, adopting her air of solemnity. “It’s because I like to look at myself in the mirror and not appear so pale. That is all.”
“Am I pale?”
Taking in the beautiful brown golden skin that she got from her dad, and the wavy brown hair that probably came from her mom, I answer, “Not at all.”
“Then why should I wear makeup?”
“You don’t have to.” I reach for the blush brush and dab it on the color a bit. “And if you do, it can only be because you want to and not because anyone else says so.”
“Got it.” She nods. “I’m good at that.”
She is, the little spitfire.
Chuckling, I show her where to put blush. The color is off for her, and I make a mental note to find her something that really makes her glow. I’m sorting through different lip tints and glosses when there’s a knock on the door.
We both turn to Marty’s bedroom door, where Consuelo is peeking in. “Excuse me, ladies,” she says in her lilting accent. “But Marty really should start her homework before it gets any later.”
“Ugh.”
Even I’m bummed. But I start putting everything away into my makeup kit, and remove the giant rollers I put on to give my hair a semblance of volume. By the time the night ends, it’s going to be flat like an arrow again—bleh.
“C’mon, let’s grab our things and head downstairs,” I tell Marty with a little pat to her back.
“Fine.” She stomps her feet on the way back to the bed, where her study materials lay scattered. I do the same with all the paraphernalia I brought over to get ready with her.
Last night, when Miguel sent the request over via text, he added an apology like this was the biggest favor ever exchanged in our strange friendship. I answered that it was absolutely no problem and that I love hanging out with Marty. Both are true. His daughter is how I wish I had been like when I was her age.
The three of us are chatting up a storm about Marty’s history homework and how mush she’d rather work on the arts one, as we walk down the stairs together. I spot Miguel in the middle of the living room, wearing an impeccably tailored green suit that matches my dress very well—his idea, by the way. Although his is a deeper hue than my silky emerald dress.
His back is toward us, head bent forward like he’s reading something. Sure enough, he slowly turns as our racket approaches and he finishes texting whoever is on the other side of his phone, putting it away before he looks up.
Miguel’s jaw tightens so hard that I can see a muscle jump.
“—Bring me ice cream and we have a deal,” Marty’s saying as we reach the landing.
Without tearing my eyes from her dad, I say, “We may come back pretty late, so does a trip to the parlor count?”
“Itsodoes!”
Consuelo leans to me and whispers, “I just want to know if something juicy happens between you two tonight.”
I inhale deeply and turn to her, but she’s already grabbing Marty’s hand and steering her toward the kitchen counter. That’s where Marty does her homework while Consuelo works in the kitchen. Meanwhile, it means that I’ve been left abandoned to the wolves.
Or wolf. There’s something sharp about Miguel’s eyes right now that is unsettling. I’ve never seen that look on his face.
Clearing his throat helps him relax a tad. He walks by me, leaving a stunning male scent behind him—something like cedar and spice—and places a big kiss on top of his daughter’s head.
They’re so friggin’ cute, and Marty’s so fortunate to have a dad like Miguel who is a complete simp for her. I bet he cried on her first day at kindergarten.
A moment later, as we walk toward the Maserati we borrowed from Logan Kim, I genuinely ask Miguel preciselythat. “Did you cry the first time you had to drop Marty off at the kindergarten?”
