Page 11 of The Last Call Home
He doesn’t respond.Just narrows his eyes at the door like he’s trying to kill it with telepathy.
“You’re glaring so hard you’re gonna scorch a hole through the glass,” I say, grabbing a rag and wiping down the espresso machine for the third time.It’s already clean.Sterile, even.But scrubbing gives me something to do besides throwing a croissant at his face.“Which would be tragic, by the way.That glass cost more than my student loans.”
Still nothing.His jaw ticks once.Twice.His knuckles whiten around the coffee cup—his coffee cup—the one Cassian took a sip from like it belonged to him—just like Malerick.
“That man waltzes in here like he owns the fucking town, steals your mocha, flirts with both of us—yes, I saw that wink—and drops a line worthy of a comic villain before walking out,” I say, spinning toward him.“And you’re just going to stand there?And brood?”
Malerick exhales through his nose.“It’s complicated.”
I laugh.Actually, laugh.“‘Complicated’ is doing your taxes while your ex calls to say she’s pregnant and your dog eats the paperwork.That was sexual tension, resentment, and probably some unresolved boyhood trauma with a jawline.”
His stare cuts to me.Not quite a glare—more of a warning.But I’m not afraid of Malerick Timberbridge.I’ve seen him hold a kitten with oven mitts because it was ‘too tiny to handle.’His poker face has nothing on mine.
“I’m not dropping this,” I tell him, folding my arms like armor.“You’re too composed.And ‘composed’ is not your vibe.You’re broody, not Buddhist.”
A long pause.
His lips part like he’s about to confess or maybe lie—but before I get either, the bell over the door chimes again.
And just like that, I’m doomed because I know it’s her.
“Buenos días, mi chiquita,” my mother sings, gliding into the café like a woman on a telenovela runway.Her lipstick is too red for ten in the morning.Her perfume announces her presence before she even finishes pushing the door open.It trails behind her like a designer warning label:Caution—this woman meddles.
She fucking meddles.
“You didn’t answer my text,” she accuses, already halfway to the counter.
“I have the bad habit of not having my phone with me while working, Mom,” I reply, keeping my voice as calm as possible.“You should try it.”
And she should.Honestly.Just once.Perhaps stop showing customers photos of her prize roses or the new lemon tree, as they requested a slideshow.Worse, when tourists walk in, she shows them my picture.As if she’s auditioning future sons-in-law.She loves me, sure, but she could tone down the matchmaking.Or at least improve the lighting on the photos.
She kisses both my cheeks with a dramatic sigh.“Working, working—always working.You should be on a beach with someone named Rafael, drinking something with a fruit garnish and making me grandchildren.”
Malerick chokes on his coffee.Actually chokes.
I shoot him a look that promises retribution.Possibly arsenic in his next cinnamon scone.
“Mami, I told you.I’m focusing on the café.”
“Mal, mijito,” she coos, turning to Malerick like he’s her favorite nephew and not a living, breathing reason I’ve had to reevaluate my vibrator’s capabilities.“You’re always here, protecting the town.I remember when you were little, causing trouble, and now ...”Her eyes scan him like a hawk locking onto prey.“He’s grown into a very handsome man.Isn’t he, Lilah.Why not him?”
“He’s the sheriff,” I say flatly.As if that makes him sexually unappealing instead of emotionally constipated.
There’s no way I’m telling my mother that I’ve tried to have a little friendly rendezvous with him and he just doesn’t want to take the hint.
“Ah, law and order.Very stable.”Mom grins as if that should seal the deal.Damn, this woman is relentless.
Malerick chokes on his drink.Good.
“Mami, stop trying to fix me up, or I swear ...”
I trail off because there’s no real threat.She doesn’t scare.Not easily.Not even when I told her I wanted to be single by choice.She just smiled and said, “You’ll grow out of it.”
Sometimes she asks why I didn’t marry someone back in France while I was studying there.The French are beautiful.I could’ve had chic, trilingual babies.But no, I came back.Same thing in Italy.Spain.Mexico.Hell, even Wisconsin had options if you squint.
Why can’t I just meet a man?
She introduced me to her cousin’s friends in Guadalajara.They offered me property and mentioned knowing a jeweler.She’s always looking for someone to match me with—always.
