Forty-five minutes later, my dad and I were in the kitchen rolling cheese and store-bought rotisserie chicken—my little cheat to save time—into lard-soaked white corn tortillas. In the living room, the CD changer slipped in the next disk and Van Morrison’s soulful voice piped through the surround sound speakers.
“Oh yeah,” my dad said, reaching for my hand and tugging me away from the counter. “Hum-de-rum, hum-de-rum, moondance,” he sang in his deep baritone, twirling me.
I laughed, delighted.
Using the back of his hand against my spine to keep his greasy fingers off me, he swept me into a dance around the island, both of us singing the song and laughing. We were making our second revolution when I noticed the two people standing at the breakfast bar.
My smile fled and I stumbled, forcing my dad to catch me.
“You got two left feet?” he teased, his eyes only on me.
“Eva’s a wonderful dancer,” Gideon interjected, his face arrested in that implacable mask I detested.
My dad turned, his smile fading, too.
Gideon rounded the bar and entered the kitchen. He’d dressed for the occasion in jeans and a Yankees T-shirt. It was a suitably casual choice and a conversation starter, since my dad was a die-hard Padres fan.
“I hadn’t realized she was such a good singer, as well. Gideon Cross,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand.
“Victor Reyes.” My dad waved his shiny fingers. “I’m a bit messy.”
“I don’t mind.”
Shrugging, my dad took his hand and sized him up.
I tossed the dish towel to the guys and made my way over to Ireland, who was positively glowing. Her blue eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” I said, hugging her carefully. “You look gorgeous!”
“So do you!”
It was a fib, but I appreciated it anyway. I hadn’t done anything to my face or hair after my shower, because I knew my dad wouldn’t care and I hadn’t expected Gideon to show up. After all, the last time I’d heard from him had been when he’d said he would meet me at Dr. Petersen’s office.
She looked over at the counter where I’d dumped everything. “Can I help?”
“Sure. Just don’t count calories in your head—it’ll explode.” I introduced her to my dad, who was much warmer to her than he was to Gideon, and then I led her to the sink, where she washed up.
In short order, I had her helping to roll the last few enchiladas, while my dad put the already chilled Dos Equis Gideon had brought into the fridge. I didn’t even bother to wonder how Gideon knew I was serving Mexican food for dinner. I only wondered why he’d invest the time to find out when it was very clear he other things to do—like ditch his appointments.
My dad went to his room to wash up. Gideon came up behind me and put his hands on my waist, his lips brushing over my temple. “Eva.”
I tensed against the nearly irresistible urge to lean into him. “Don’t,” I whispered. “I’d rather we didn’t pretend.”
His breath left him in a rush that ruffled my hair. His fingers tightened on my hips, kneading for a moment. Then I felt his phone vibrate and he released me, backing away to look at the screen.
“Excuse me,” he said gruffly, leaving the kitchen before answering.
Ireland sidled over and whispered, “Thank you. I know you made him bring me along.”
I managed a smile for her. “Nobody can make Gideon do anything he doesn’t want to.”
“You could.” She tossed her head, throwing her sleek waist-length black hair over her shoulder. “You didn’t see him watching you dance with your dad. His eyes got all shiny. I thought he was going to cry. And on the way up here, in the elevator, he tried to play it off, but I could totally tell he was nervous.”
I stared down at the can of enchilada sauce in my hands, feeling my heart break a little more.
“You’re mad at him, aren’t you?” Ireland asked.
I cleared my throat. “Some people are just better off as friends.”
“But you said you love him.”
“That’s not always enough.” I turned around to reach the can opener and found Gideon standing at the other end of the island, staring at me. I froze.
A muscle in his jaw twitched before he unclenched it. “Would you like a beer?” he asked gruffly.
I nodded. I could’ve used a shot, too. Maybe a few.
“Want a glass?”
“No.”
He looked at Ireland. “You thirsty? There’s soda, water, milk.”
“How about one of those beers?” she shot back, flashing a winsome smile.
“Try again,” he said wryly.
I watched Ireland, noting how she sparkled when Gideon focused on her. I couldn’t believe he didn’t see how she loved him. Maybe right now it was based on superficial things, but it was there and it would grow with a little encouragement. I hoped he’d work on that.
When Gideon handed me the chilled beer, his fingers brushed mine. He held on for a minute, looking into my eyes. I knew he was thinking about the other night.
It seemed like a dream now, as if his visit never really happened. I could almost believe that I’d made it up in a desperate delusion, so hungry for his touch and his love that I couldn’t go another minute without giving my mind relief from the madness of wanting and craving. If it weren’t for the lingering soreness deep inside me, I wouldn’t know what was real and what was nothing but false hope.
I pulled the beer out of his grasp and turned away. I didn’t want to say we were done and over, but it was certain now that we needed a break from each other. Gideon needed to figure out what he was doing, what he was looking for, and whether I had any meaningful place in his life. Because this roller-coaster ride we were on was going to break me, and I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t.
“Can I help with anything?” he asked.
I answered without looking at him, because doing so was too painful. “Can you see if we can get Cary out here? He’s got a wheelchair.”
“All right.”
He left the room, and I could suddenly breathe deeply again.
Ireland hurried over. “What happened to Cary?”
“I’ll tell you about it while we set the table.”
* * *
I was surprised I could eat. I think I was too fascinated by the silent showdown between my dad and Gideon to notice that I was stuffing food into my mouth. At one end of the table, Cary was charming Ireland into peals of laughter that kept making me smile. At the other end, my dad sat at the head of the table, with Gideon on his left and me on his right.
They were talking. The conversation had opened with baseball, as I’d expected, then migrated into golf. On the surface, both men seemed relaxed, but the air around them was highly charged. I noticed that Gideon wasn’t wearing his expensive watch. He’d planned carefully to appear as “normal” as possible.
But nothing Gideon did on the outside could change who he was on the inside. It was impossible to hide what he was—a dominant male, a captain of industry, a man of privilege. It was in every gesture he made, every word he spoke, every look he gave.
So he and my father were in the position of struggling to find who would be the alpha, and I suspected I hung in the balance. As if anyone were in control of my life but me.