Page 66 of Not For Keeps
He nods again. “Yeah. Me too.”
But neither of us moves. Not right away. Eventually, I force myself to stand. “Thank you. For today. For everything.”
He looks up at me, something unreadable in his eyes. “Always.”
And just before I turn to go, he reaches out and gently brushes a loose curl behind my ear. The touch is light. Barely there. But I feel it long after his hand moves away. I feel it deep in my core.
“Tomorrow,” he says softly. “Let’s just…enjoy tomorrow”
“Okay.”
I walk away before I can do something stupid like kiss him.
Chapter Twenty
ANALYSE
The smell hits first—rich spices, roasted garlic, sweet cinnamon, citrus and slow-cooked pork. The house is full of music and warmth, and for the first time in a long time, it actually feels like Christmas.
Maya darts past me in a red dress covered in glitter, carrying a candy cane in one hand and a gingerbread cookie in the other. “Titi Mari brought the good treats!” she calls over her shoulder before disappearing into the living room.
I smile and shake my head, turning toward the kitchen where chaos has become a kind of love language. The dining table is overflowing. There’s pernil on a carved wooden board, the skin perfectly crispy. A honey-glazed ham sits beside it, garnished with pineapples and cloves. Trays of arroz con gandules, ensalada de papa, buttery dinner rolls, and tower of pies take up every inch of space. Mari’s bakery boxes are stacked near the end of the table, full of pastelitos and coconut macaroons dusted with edible gold. Anna’s brought two trays of fresh Colombian empanadas that people are already sneakingfrom before dinner. Andres walks in behind her, both arms cradling bottles of wine like he’s about to restock a bar.
“It’s not too much, is it?” Andres says, placing the bottles on the counter.
“You brought nine bottles,” I deadpan.
“We’re a lively bunch,” he replies with a wink.
Across the room, Mateo is wearing a white button-down—ironed, thank God—and red suspenders Maya picked out for him. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and he’s crouched beside her, helping her hang an ornament on the bottom branch of the tree. He looks up at me mid-laugh, like he can feel me watching.
God, I’m in trouble.
By the time everyone arrives, the house is full. Seb’s manning the music, bouncing between salsa, freestyle, and classic Christmas ballads. Anna and Mari are in the kitchen arguing over whether the empanadas need more aji. Maya is happily leading Nathan around the house on a tour, narrating every detail of our home.
Mateo slips behind me, placing a hand on my lower back as he leans in. “You okay?” he murmurs, just for me.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “More than okay.”
Nathan walks back into the room a few minutes later holding something in his hands—large, red petals, delicate and bold. He walks straight to Mari.
“These are for you,” he says, holding out a bundle of flor de maga. “I know they were your mom’s favorite.”
Mari freezes. The room stills with her.
She blinks, swallows, then steps forward to take them, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
“I wanted her to be part of tonight, too,” he says.
She presses the petals to her chest. “She would’ve loved that.”
Someone turns the music down. A beat of silence settles over the group. Seb raises a glass. “To Lucia,” he says.
“To Lucia,” we all echo, glasses clinking.
Dinner is loud and messy in the best way. Everyone talks over each other, passing plates, laughing, dipping bread into sauce, licking sticky glaze off their fingers. Maya eats mostly dessert, and no one dares to stop her. Mateo takes two servings of arroz con gandules and moans dramatically at the table.
“This rice has no business being this good,” he groans, eyes closed.
