Page 34 of Challenged By You
He crouches in front of Chris. Pulling out a piece of the chicken, he raises his brow in question. I nod my assent before he cajoles my son, “Want to give this a try, buddy?”
Chris purses his lips, uncertain.
“It’s chicken,” Jonas tries again, but before the words are out, Chris is yanking the meat from his fingers and shoving it in his mouth.
Just as quickly, Chris is spitting it out. It lands smack-dab in the middle of Jonas’s glasses and dribbles down the side of his face. Chris face turns beet red before he begins to wail.
“Hold on, baby. Mama has some bread. It will make the heat go away,” I soothe him. I look to Jonas but don’t find him nearby. When I finally spot him, he’s stalking back over to the tent where we bought the food. “Crap.” I shove the rest of the tortilla in Chris’s hands—to his delight—and begin pushing the stroller through people like I’m playing a game of Mario Kart until I’m next to an infuriated Jonas Rice.
“All I’m asking for is some plain, unseasoned chicken to be cooked. Why can’t that be accommodated?” The chicken Chris spit at him is still stuck to his skin.
“Why you care? Not your kids; not your concern,” the cashier announces. I feel a wash of anger and shame when the woman I recognize from previous visits jerks her head in my direction.
The vortex of air sucked in through Jonas’s lungs at that statement leaves almost none for the rest of us. Quickly I rush in with, “Perhaps he’s trying to help youwithyour business?”
“Bah, what does he know?” She moves to turn away, a woman settled in her traditional ways.
But it occurs to me while Jonas went about it the wrong way—he should have saved it for his column—and the owner might regret her behavior, they both should know who they’re dealing with. “Señora García, this is Jonas Rice—the food critic withCity Lights. Jonas, this is Señora Maya García. She’s owned García’s for the last thirty years here in the Bronx. You should find time to talk with her how she’s managed to keep such a microscopic restaurant open—and why she can’t alter the menu too much.” With that, I angle the stroller away.
While waiting, I feed Chris and Annie the rice and tortillas they devour without hesitation. By the time Jonas joins us again, he’s calmer. “First—” He crouches down and gets Chris’s attention away from the multitude of people wandering around. “I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to feed you something you didn’t like.”
My son’s only response is to blow a raspberry before giving Jonas a toothy smile. But another wall is torn down by the tender way Jonas rubs his big hand over Chris and then Annie’s heads before standing. Then, he hands me something heavy in a bag without a word.
“What’s this?” I exclaim.
“A gift from Señora García. She said she doesn’t have time to cook it up, but it’s fresh chicken for you.” I protest when Jonas lays his thumb over my lips. “When she realized it was because of the work you do that I’m here covering restaurants like hers, this was her way of saying thank you.”
I catch Señora García’s eye, hold up the bag, and nod appreciatively. I ask Jonas, “What did you say to her?”
“Just that she should survey her clients to see how many have kids. If it’s worth it, maybe she should cook up some plain chicken as the only kids item.” He shrugs. I gape at him. “It would increase her sales without her overhead.”
And without thinking, I grab his cheeks, with the pounds of raw chicken still in one hand, and lay a smacking kiss on his lips. “Sheer genius,” I declare before I busy myself finding a spot in my cooling bag for the chicken.
When I straighten, Jonas is in my space. “I just want you to know, in no way does that count as our first kiss.” His voice is barely a rasp. “I don’t want a million eyes on us when I slide my mouth onto yours for the first time.” Taking the handles of the stroller from me, he asks, “Where to next?”
“Fresh fruits.” I clear my throat once. Twice. “Right over there. I made the kids a promise of fresh bananas.”
A chant of “Nanners!” comes from the inside of the rented stroller. I chuckle. But then I almost swallow my tongue when Jonas looks over the edge of his designer sunglasses. God, why do men look so damn hot doing that?
Before I can speak, Jonas is shoving a wrapped chicken sandwich in my hand. “Better eat, Chef. I don’t think Señora García will take kindly to both of us commenting about her food in one day.”
Blindly, I go to take a bite when I realize it’s still covered in foil. “Oops. Hold on a second.” I quickly unwrap a corner before I push the handle in the direction we need to be heading to. “I’m ready to go.”
“I’ll let you lead the way.” I let out a relieved sigh as I begin to push the twins, but before I can get more than a few inches, I hear Jonas’s voice. “For now.”
My soul lets out a moan even as I say a breathless “Okay. For now.”
Chapter 13
Jonas
Itrail behind Trina as she carries two exhausted toddlers in her arms off the elevator. The swish back and forth of her long legs encased in tight jeans does nothing for the comfort of my own. Fortunately, I can use the reusable shopping bags as camouflage to hide the effects of having spent a day with her.
My mind is whirling as baby-fine blond hair tangles with her own. She’s whispering something about finding her keys. I step closer. “Let me help.” Our eyes clash over the backs of her children.
I don’t know about Trina, but throughout the day, I’ve been hard-pressed not to drag her against me to finish what started in her kitchen last night. The overwhelming desire to press my lips against hers is overriding my senses for everything—including food. And every piece of food I tried from the different vendors was bland when compared to the contentment on her face. How am I supposed to do my job when the chicken verde wrap from García’s had about the same impact as the hunk of frozen banana forced into my mouth by an overeager toddler? After all, I lost all sense of flavor when I glanced up from Annie’s cherubic face into Trina’s laughing one.
Watching the smile blossom across Trina’s lips brought me the greatest pleasure over anything I could have eaten. I could write columns about that, I muse. Stepping closer, I repeat, “Let me help you. Where are your keys, Trina?”
