Page 61 of Love at Teamsgiving
“Figured it wasn’t a big deal.”
“This sure is.”
“And we’ll take care of it.”
Several thoughts collide in my mind at once. Miguel doesn’t hate me. He’s helping me. If I were doing this completely on my own, I’d be in total panic mode. However, I don’t want to have to rely on him. Because ... why? Okay, maybe I am in panic mode because liquid fills my eyes.
Miguel’s gaze floats over me. Whereas I feel like I’m about to fall apart, his expression remains steady, his posture confident.I could sure go for a hug again. I don’t want to want him or need him.
… but I do.
Instead, he runs his thumb over my cheek, catching my tears. Some people have eye contact anxiety, but in Miguel’s gaze, I find a pool of comfort.
He runs his fingers along the scar on my cheek and then leans in, dabbing a kiss there.
“We could be like this again,” he whispers into my ear.
We could. My heart flutters.
He asks, “Who’s your who?”
I mouth,Youand lean my head into his touch. Familiar, warm. Comfort.
He looks at me carefully as if measuring just how much our breakup hurt, and presses his lips softly together as if understanding that I’d never admit that kind of vulnerability.
I lean toward him as he tilts his head down. It would be so easy to rest on his shoulder. Our cheeks are practically brushing. I can feel the warmth coming off him like a toasty fire on a crisp autumn day.
He smells so good. Like home. I want to stay here, but something he said startles me.
“Wait. What is Tony doing here? Doesn’t he live in Colorado?”
“He came to help.”
“I can’t afford the entire Cruz crew.”
The rascal winks, knowing full well what that does to me with those dark lashes of his. “You get the family discount.”
But what I really can’t afford is losing my heart to this man again.
I want to tell him I don’t need it. For my voice to be strong. For my legs to be steady. They’re not, yet I tell myself to say goodbye and walk away once and for all.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
I still love him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I’m notthe type of girl who goes through outfit changes, trying to figure out what to wear to an event. My wardrobe consists mostly of black staples with some statement pieces—my style comes from city living and salon work.
And when my mother emerges from her room wearingnotblack, I realize two things at once.
One, while she’s been outfitted in black clothing as a sign of mourning, I’ve been donning the color for most of my life.
Have I been grieving something?
Two, I see distinctly what I’m going to look like in about twenty-five more years. It’s a strange kind of mirror.
