Page 12 of The Last Call Home
“Why don’t you get your apron and start working?”I ask, already turning toward the cake station.“I have a cake to focus on.”
You’d think that would shut her down, right?
Nope, nothing will stop Rosalinda Isabel Mora Pineda.Not even her daughter.
Mom shrugs, unbothered, and plucks a biscotti from the display without asking.“Then maybe that new guy across the street.”She waves vaguely in the direction of the bar.“Cassian.I just met him.Es un cuero de hombre.If I were your age, I’d take him some cookies, a coffee, and a marriage proposal.”
“Mami.”
Malerick raises a brow.“What did she say?”
I shrug.“She agrees with you.He’s very handsome?—”
“No, no,” he interrupts.“She didn’t say guapo.”
“She said, and I quote, ‘es un cuero de hombre.’”I shrug again.“It a coloquial term that translates a little like ...he’s fucking hot.”
Mom glares at Malerick, undeterred.“You need to learn to speak Spanish, mijo.That’s why she’s never going to marry you.”She points in the direction of the bar like it’s a game show prize.“He might get her hand in marriage.”
“She’s not marrying Cassian,” Malerick snaps—too quickly, too loud, like his chest just lit on fire and no one told him how to stop it.There’s a glint in his eyes.Possessiveness or panic, I can’t tell.Or maybe both.Maybe that’s what he is.A mix of want and don’t-touch.
I glance at him, but he won’t look back.
That’s the problem with the Timberbridge men.
They don’t let you in, not really.They wrap themselves in silence, in tragedy, and call it survival.They touch you as if they mean it, but speak as if it never happened.
And I’ve had enough of that.
“You’re wrong.Cassian is a good candidate.”Mom hums, eyes still on Malerick like she’s weighing his soul.“He has a strong name.A strong jaw.I could work with that.”
Of course she could.
She might create a life from stubbornness and fantasies.Meanwhile, I’m attempting to hold my sanity together with espresso shots and sarcasm.
And the man across from me?The one my mother thinks is future son-in-law material?
He still hasn’t said what he wanted to say before she walked in.
I groan and grab a tray of croissants to restock.This conversation is over, and Mal will have to leave without his sandwich.I don’t care if he doesn’t pay for the coffee.I just don’t want to deal with him today.
“And don’t get me started on your abuela,” she calls.“If she were alive, she’d light a candle at the church for your ovaries.I should do that.I’ll ask your aunts in Mexico to do it, too.”
Malerick coughs again, harder this time.
“Great,” I mutter.“So I’ve got divine intervention and family shame in stereo.”
“We’re just worried about you,” she says, finally softening.“You work too hard, smile too little, and don’t bring home any boys.”
I glance at Malerick.
He’s still scowling, but there’s something under it—an itch in his bones like his skin doesn’t fit quite right.Like he wants to crawl out of this moment and into a world where none of this exists.Where Cassian didn’t sip his mocha.Where my mother didn’t suggest marriage.
He looks like he’d rather be buried alive than endure another minute of this conversation.
“Go,” I tell him, voice soft but firm.“Before she starts planning our wedding.I think she’s already picking color swatches and flowers.”
He doesn’t argue.Mal just tosses back the last of his coffee like it’s whiskey, mutters something about paperwork, and escapes as if the building might implode.
