Page 1 of Theirs to Crave

Chapter 1

Estrella

“You’re never picking the restaurant again, hermano.” I rubbed my growling stomach as Mariano merged onto the freeway.

He scoffed.

“Nuh-uh. Dragging me all the way out here for some bougie nonsense that barely qualified as food. Best restaurant in the state, my ass.” My head thudded against the seat and I slumped in abject misery. “Foam and gold leaf on a speck of steak pretending to be a meal. Now you’re broke, I’m starving, and there’s not a drive thru for miles.”

“It’s not my fault,” Mariano wheedled, laughing. “The reviews were amazing. It has Michelin stars!” He shook his finger at me. “You liked that green sauce, admit it. Come on, it wasn’tthatbad.” He grinned boyishly at me, dark hair falling over his forehead.

I rolled my eyes. “Fool, that look hasn’t worked on me since we were six. And itwasthat bad. The bill was more than my monthly utilities, I’m hungrier now than I was when we gotthere, and the waiter wouldn’t stop staring at my tits.” I crossed my arms, pushing said tits against the neckline of my shirt. They were big enough that I couldn’t hide them if I tried, so I didn’t bother. I didn’t blame the man for noticing. I was hot. Soft and round with curves on my curves, I had warm brown skin like my mamá, my dad’s killer dimples, and wavy black hair. But since the only time the waiter had met my eyes was when he sneeringly corrected my pronunciation of some gastronomic “masterpiece”, his attention had felt anything but good.

Mariano furrowed his eyebrows, nostrils flaring. “Pendejo. I should’ve punched him.”

“Pfft,” I disagreed. The last thing this night needed was a trip to jail.

“Ok, fine. You win, it was awful.” He rolled his eyes at my triumphant laugh. “Tell you what, I’ll come over in the morning and make chilaquiles. You don’t have plans, right?”

Seriously? I was thirty-two, divorced, childless, and spending Friday night with my brother. My wild weekend plans included sleeping in and shopping online for clothes I couldn’t afford. “Deal. You’re still buying me a burger, though.” I tapped at my phone, looking for the nearest drive thru, then paused. “Wait, I thought you were going away with Renée this weekend?”

He winced.

Twisting in my seat, I glared at him. “Mariano Julian Alfonso Parker, what did you do?”

“Why’d I have to do anything?” he blustered. “You’re my sister, Estrella! You’re supposed to be on my side! ¿La familia primero, no?”

“I know you did something because wearefamilia, cabrón! I know you! Renée’s crazy about you. She’s been putting together dream boards for your wedding for months. So, I ask again,whatdid you do?”

He groaned dramatically and ignored me, hand firm on the top of the wheel as he slouched in his seat.

I waited, staring at him.

He turned on the radio.

I turned it off.

He made a frustrated noise in his throat, and I bit back a smile. He was so easy.

“I don’t want to tell you,” he said, shooting me a glance from under furrowed brows.

I arched my eyebrow and said nothing. Loudly.

“Argh!” he gritted out. “She started talking about babies, ok?”

My stomach plummeted, as if the bottom had dropped out of the car and I was dragged beneath the tires. I forced myself to breathe. “Is she...are you...?” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“No!” Mariano whipped his head around, dark eyes meeting mine before he returned them to the road. “No, she’s not pregnant. Dammit, this is why I didn’t want to say anything.” He drummed his fingers on the wheel.

“So, what’s the problem?” Keeping my voice steady took all my will, but I made it happen. This wasn’t about me. “I thought you wanted kids?”

“I don’t know,” he waffled. “They were always just...something that happened later. Marriage, kids, a house, all that stuff. But when Renée started talking aboutourkids...Irealized I didn’t want it. Not with her, at least.” He grimaced and shoved a hand through his hair. “I care for her. But I don’t—I don’t love her. I, ah, blurted it out without thinking.” He made a pathetic attempt at a chuckle. “She’s not real happy with me right now.”

“Wait,” I said, holding up my hand. “So, how did this go? Renée says, ‘Hey, we’re not getting any younger. Let’s have babies.’ And you say...?”

“But I don’t love you,” he confirmed glumly.

“¡No mames!” I gasped.

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