Page 25 of King of Hearts

Chapter Eleven

The air wasthick with something spicy, making my stomach grumble with hunger pangs. I pushed past the urge to ask what Juan had cooked. I didn’t even know he could cook, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t stay there while he treated me the way I saw myself. It felt like I was paper thin and somehow had found the one person in life who could see through my translucent skin and knew my deepest sins. I hated who I had become, but then again, my entire life was made up of death and denial…there was no way I’d confront the monumental mind fuck that Juan Hernandez was.

With one hand on the door, I was suddenly stopped with a warm hand on my wrist.

“Where are you going?” Juan’s question was soft, almost pleading.

I knew if I turned to catch his expression, it would melt part of the ice I’d let expand in my chest.

Facing away from him, I answered, “Out.”

“That’s not going to work for us. I need to know that you’re safe.” He tugged so I’d face him. Although I resisted, it did nothing to keep him away. “Where are you going?” he tried again, and this time his tone was so gentle that my eyes rose to his.

Whiskey on a sunny day, daring me to answer him…challenging me to lie.

“Holden,” I whispered, wetting my lips. My mouth was too dry, my heart too pathetic.

I expected Juan to scoff, let me go, and make me feel the way he had so many times. But he surprised me by tugging me forward until I was following him, his hand covering mine.

“Juan, did you hear me? What are you—”

“I heard you, I’m just not letting you go.” He stopped at the stove, where he started stirring what looked like chicken. It smelled so good that my mouth watered and my stomach clenched. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, and that was…what time was it? I looked around, noticing the clock on the microwave indicated it was past six.

“Why do you care? I—”

“When did you last eat?” Juan cut in, his gaze on the sizzling chicken.

“I…” I pulled at my hand, but he didn’t let me go. “Lunch time.” I finally gave in.

“So that was around noon…have you had a snack?” He let me go, but his warm arms came around me, caging me against the counter with my back to his chest. There was a wooden cutting board in front of me along with a sharp knife and three limes.

He lifted my right hand and forced a small green fruit into it.

“Roll this.”

I wrapped my fingers around it, feeling its weight while trying to look up to catch his gaze. What did he mean by ‘roll it’? I had never rolled a lime before; was that a normal thing? Perplexed and slightly intrigued, I did as he said and laid the lime on the wooden slab, making my palm flat over it and then rolling the round citrus.

“More pressure, like this.” His hand swallowed mine, adding pressure as the limes rolled into the wood. I allowed his fingers to stay on top of mine while we worked all three. Soft music played in the living room, something with a heavy beat, making the feel of Juan’s arms around me and the heat of his breath on my neck an intoxicating mixture.

“Where did you learn to do this?”

Juan shifted behind me, slightly moving to the right, letting me out of his cocoon. I stood there, unsure why I suddenly felt so cold and confused. Wasn’t I headed over to Holden’s house?

“My parents, aunts, my grandparents—everyone cooks. I’ve been around it my entire life.” He flipped the chrome burner to the left, killing the flame. The pan was lifted above our heads while he shifted toward two empty plates. I hadn’t even noticed them.

He carefully poured a small portion of cubed chicken onto each plate, which already had three round tortillas laid out.

“Can you quarter those limes for me?” He set the pan back on the burner and headed toward a small bowl of diced onion and another with something green inside.

“Uh…” I looked down at the cutting board and eyed the knife next to it. Heat flared and infused my cheeks as I realized I had no idea what he meant. I assumed he meant to cut them into four pieces, but was there a specific way to do that…or…?

Grabbing the knife in my right hand and the lime in my left, I wet my lips and aligned the blade to cut down the middle. I knew Juan watched me, which only made things a thousand times worse. I was almost twenty-one and had no idea how to quarter a lime. My face warmed as I paused, staring down at the two halves in front of me. I had baked things and even dabbled in cooking a million times, but I had never really made anything authentic.

“Now cut each piece in half again,” Juan quietly murmured from the counter across the kitchen. His eyes weren’t even on me, which made breathing a bit easier. How embarrassing. He’d been cooking his whole life, likely dated women who knew how to cook…then there was me, a spoiled entitled princess.

I cut the following two limes, hating myself with each swipe of the knife.

“Here,” I whispered, cradling the pieces in my hands and walking toward the plates. I didn’t even know what we were doing with them.

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