Page 36 of The Crowned Garza
Inching in the direction of the washroom with tiny side steps, I say, “Breakfast in bed?”
“Hmm.” A stretch of silence, then, “Go put them back and let’s go.”
“It’ll only take a second—”
“Put them back.”
“I just want to—”
“Regalità,” he grits out, fingers balling into fists on the counter. “If you know what’s good for you right now, you will do what I tell you. Put them the fuck back, get dressed, and let’s go.”
I’m just as mouthy and defiant as the next brat, but I also know when to heel.
The energy rolling off him right now isn’t one I’m willing to toe with at the moment, so without argument, cheeks burning, I turn and head back to the room, dump the sheets on the bed, and get dressed.
It was most definitely him.
~
THE SILENCE DURINGthe drive home is loud.
Two nights ago, I begged Saint to take me with him to escape my mortification. Now I’m leaving more mortified than I came.
Like toddlers lose their kid teeth at a certain age to make way for new ones, I’ve always assumed that by the time I hit twenty, my “adult cells” would kick in and I’d become a lot more prudent and a lot less disastrous. Apparently, there’s no such thing because I’m so far from being a mature, organized adult, it’s ridiculous.
When we’re outside the condo, I leap out of the car so fast my ankle nearly twists.
“Tillie,” Saint says before I can shut the door and run off.
I stare down at the leather seat. “Hm?”
“It’s time to grow up, all right?”
That gets me to lift my gaze, colliding with his. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re mature enough to know what’s good for you and what isn’t. You’re not a little girl anymore. If you keep sneaking under the veil to dance with the dark creatures on the other side, you might find, one day, you won’t be able to return.”
I bite my lip. “What if I prefer the dark creatures?”
“Reginedon’t belong with dark creatures. They waltz on gold and sit on thrones.” He shifts into reverse. “Start making better choices,piccola regina.” He hits the gas, leaving me no choice but to slam the door and jump back.
Watching him leave, I can’t help thinking that maybe Ibelongon the other side of the veil.
Darkness has never scared me; its touch is the sweetest caress.
No, I’ll never stop sneaking under the veil.
I head inside, run upstairs, and take a quick shower to wash away the stench of my misconduct. After getting dressed in jeans and a tee, I skip out to our private backyard and duck through the hedge gate that leads to the back gardens of the family business.
Barefoot Runaway is a booming bed-and-breakfast co-owned by my sister-in-law, Lexi, and my brother, True. Lexi opened it around five years ago and hired Mom as the operational manager. Which led to Mom and me saying goodbye to our family home in Redlands and moving into the attached condo. At the time, I’d been indignant about the move because that house in Redlands, that street, was where all my happy childhood memories lived, and leaving it felt like leaving Dad behind.
But I knew it was the best thing for Mom, as she hadn’t been doing well mentally. All her sons had moved on with their lives and I was going out a lot; the loneliness was getting to her and it showed. Taking the job and moving here to Pasadena brought us closer to my siblings, which has revived her in many ways. Momlivesto serve and nurture. It’s her inherent nature. Lexi couldn’t have given her a better gift.
I find her in the kitchen discussing a menu with the chef. Her lush topaz-brown skin is glowing today. I’ve been blessed with her melanin-rich hue, but no matter what skincare treatment I follow, I can never get my skin to look as smooth and radiant as hers. Am I jealous of my own mother for her flawless skin tone? Damn right, I am.
Since she’s too enwrapped to notice me, I sneak up and hug her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder. Her scent of hot cocoa, peace, and cinnamon has forever been my home and comfort. She pauses for a brief moment, then pats my arm in acknowledgment and continues her discussion with the chef.
Once they’re done, she reaches up without turning and ruffles my curls. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
