Page 46 of Nest of Thieves
“Let me make you food.”
“I can feed myself, thank you very much.” I don’t want his grouchy-alpha-omega-snaring attitude making my vagina think we’re safe. We’re not safe—you hear me, vagina?I don’t care if this man offers a platter of bacon.You will resist his alpha charms.
An annoyed growl rumbles deep in his chest and reverberates against mine. Growls shouldn’t be sexy. Right. My vag isn’t listening to reason.
“Don’t try to alpha me into food.”
“If you weren’t so stubborn about it. Vamos.” He leaves the room, not a bit worried about me breaking into his office now that he’s caught me.
I glare after him but follow all the same. Iama little hungry.
fourteen
VETTE
One thing my mamá taught me before she died was that no woman likes to be hungry. Her and my three papás died when I was twelve, but I remember Papá Antonio cooking for her all the time. Mamá could cook, she made the best empanadas, but my Papá Antonio was the chef.
The foster system I was in with Mac and Lark didn’t exactly give me time to cook, but as soon as we ran away together at sixteen, I learned. Food is what connects me to my family, even though they’ve been gone for so long. Food can fix almost anything, and even though it’s helped me throughout the years, it still hasn’t fully healed the ache of their loss that’s logged in my chest. Mis padres, my parents, they were my world.
Jo enters the kitchen with a displeased wrinkle in her nose. Her surly disposition distracts me from my morbid thoughts.
“Do you like tamales?”
She nods. “It’s not Christmas.”
“Yeah, but you make them at Christmas and freeze them to have later.” I grab a bag of foil-wrapped tamales out of the freezer. They need to be eaten before they get freezer burn, and they’re the best I have to offer her at the moment. I remove the foil and set two in the instant cooker I got for Christmas.
Jo slips onto a barstool.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and set it in front of her before grabbing a small container of leftover Spanish rice I made yesterday. I pop that in the microwave to warm. It won’t be my best work, but this is all I have energy for.
Her eyes drill into my back like lasers. She’s trying to figure me out. She’s better off not trying. She’d be scared of the truth.
The instant cooker beeps and I grab a plate. Once I have the rice and the tamales on the plate, I grab a fork and set both in front of her. “Do you want hot sauce?”
She unwraps and inspects the tamales. “Depends on your masa to filling ratio.”
“Don’t insult me,” I say with a scoff. “Try it.”
Using her fork, she takes a small chunk of tamale and pops it into her mouth. She hums in approval, and I nod.
“Panza llena, corazón contento.”
Her eyebrows draw together.
Right. She doesn’t actually speak Spanish. She knows enough to understand some of what I’m saying; most people do. Speaking Spanish is another way I honor my parents. While we lived in a small town outside of Atlantic City, they migrated from a small village in Mexico. At home, we spoke Spanish. At school, I spoke English.
“Full stomach, happy heart,” I tell her. “MyPapá Antonio used tosay it all the time.”
She smiles a little. “He sounds smart.”
I look away to avoid the pity in her gaze when I say, “He was. All of my parents were.”
Silence fills the space between us. Jo continues to eat, grappling with what to say.
“You should try the rice too.”
She does. “It’s good.”
