Page 48 of Winning Match
I breathe her in, feeling as centered as if it were Gladys, or Dorothy, or Judith. Grandma vibes roll off Abuela’s shoulders and wrap me in a warm hug I didn’t realize I needed. Her presence puts me at ease, and I give her an extra squeeze, as if to shore up my strength to meet the indomitable Rubén García.
“Alejandro never brings women home,” she murmurs in my ear. “But I always knew when he did, she would be exceptional.”
Her kindness causes emotion to swim behind my eyes. Partly because I didn’t expect it and partly because her words cause my guilt to heighten. How are Ale and I going to lie straight to his sweet abuela’s face?
“Thank you,” I whisper, stepping back and turning toward Alejandro’s mother.
“You made this?” she asks, peeking at the cheesecake.
“Yes.” I fiddle with the strap of my tank, nervous.
“It’s gorgeous,” she says earnestly, passing it to Ale to grasp my shoulders and kiss my cheeks in greeting. “It’s so lovely to meet you.”
“You too, Mrs. García. Your home is beautiful,” I say, glancing at the foyer. The house is contemporary—all clean lines and minimalism.
“Hm,” Abuela remarks. “Beautifully boring.”
Ale snickers.
Mrs. García gives her mother-in-law a look. She links her arm with mine and moves me through the foyer and toward the living room. “Thank you, Marlowe. And please, call me Paloma. We recently remodeled. Apparently, Rubén’s mother doesn’t like the change.”
“I like good changes,” Abuela pipes back.
Paloma sighs.
“Where’s Papá?” Ale asks, placing the wine bag on a side table as we enter the living room.
“Oh, he’s outside. He just started the paella,” Paloma explains.
“Come,” Ale murmurs, stretching out his hand.
Abuela gives me a reassuring pat on the back. I slip my hand into Ale’s and let him guide me toward the back of his parents’ home.
Wide, wall-length sliding doors give the most gorgeous view of the back deck, the swimming pool, and the Mediterranean Sea beyond. The view from the house is breathtaking—something I’d only seen in magazines like Architectural Digest.
Ale slides open the door and we slip through it, stepping back into the whip of humidity.
Alejandro’s father stands beside a massive flame pit and the scent of charcoal fills the air. Atop the fire sits the biggest pan I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Papá,” Ale calls out, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
Rubén García isn’t particularly tall. In fact, he’s slim and fit and dressed in a navy Polo shirt, cream-colored trousers, and woven espadrille loafers. But when he lifts his eyes and his gaze slams into mine, I note his intensity, sharp intellect, and unchecked boldness. He sizes me up in a blink, zeroing in on my hand intertwined with his son’s, and clocking my choice of clothing in an instant.
But I don’t cower under his stare. Instead, I square my shoulders and tilt my chin the tiniest bit higher. Because behind his sharp wit and pristine legacy is a father who wants his son to be happy.
Ale might not realize it, but in Rubén García’s demeanor, I see parallels with my own grandfather.
A patriarch who built an empire. A man who defied the odds to create something out of nothing. A person doesn’t acquire global success, collect accolades, and become a master of their craft without taking risks, facing off against worthy opponents, and honing a shrewd sense of judgment.
“Mr. García.” I hold out my hand. “Encantada de conocerte.” It’s a pleasure to meet you.
His eyes widen slightly at my attempt in his language, and he leans back an infinitesimal amount. If I wasn’t looking for his reaction, I would have missed it. Beside me, Alejandro stiffens, his body tight.
But Mr. García takes my hand and shakes it. “Bienvenida a mi casa.” Welcome to my home.
“Gracias.” I grin warmly, glancing out toward the endless sea. “I’m thrilled to be here. This is some view.”
He nods, making a sound in the back of his throat. And then, “Have you ever tried paella?”
