Tonight is nothing like my last visit. For starters, Marko abandons me the moment I step into the house. He sits on the living room couch with his eyes glued to the television. His absence makes Santiago’s presence that much more daunting, like a dark force swallowing me whole. I, for one, am afraid of some unsupervised time with the tall man who checks all my boxes and then some.
He leads me into his luxurious kitchen. The smells coming from the stove and oven have me salivating. It’s nothing I’m used to.
Santiago knowing how to cook completely disarms me in a new kind of way. I lean against the counter, captivated by him cutting up onions like he’s a hot Spanish version of Gordon freaking Ramsey. His arms flex with every movement. The five minutes I spend drooling on the counter solidifies my commitment to binging every cooking show available on TV. Screw Love Island, I’m here for the kitchen island.
Thank God I have him locked down as a fake boyfriend. He shouldn’t be allowed in the dating world with talents like his.
I laugh to myself at my possessiveness over something unreal.
He looks up from the cutting board. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” I say to his straining bicep.
He tightens his hold on the knife, forcing the muscles in his arm to flex.
My cheeks warm as I lift my gaze, catching his eyes. “I didn’t know you could cook. Like really cook, you know, with fancy knives and real vegetables.”
“I’m almost scared to ask what you mean by ‘real vegetables.’” He fake shudders.
“Hey, don’t judge. I’m not talented in the kitchen so I make do with the frozen stuff.”
“Frozen stuff? Why would you do that?”
“Here’s a rough summary: I burn bread.”
The laugh he lets out makes goosebumps spread across my skin. “That’s like my sister. She couldn’t find her way through a kitchen if you gave her step-by-step instructions and a video tutorial.”
“I’d burn the guide and call for takeout. It sounds like the safest option for everyone involved.”
“Are you willing to learn?”
“To cook?” I ogle him while licking my bottom lip. The idea of Santiago teaching me something domestic has me practically panting.
His eyes darken as they drop to my tongue. “Can you stop doing that? It’s distracting.” He drags his thumb across my bottom lip, drying it.
I choke on my inhale of breath. My fingers clutch onto the counter as I fight hacking up a lung. “What?”
“Do you want to help me?” He ignores my question and points to the ingredients covering the counter.
“Really?”
“I’ll consider it my duty to society. We can’t have you out in the world eating frozen vegetables and risking the lives of others by burning bread.” He smirks.
I flash him a smile, enjoying his lightheartedness. “If I went back to America knowing how to make anything besides instant Mac and Cheese, I think my best friend, Brooke, would personally send you a gift basket.”
Santiago chuckles, rough and warm. “Do you know how to peel potatoes?”
I nod. “Brooke and I attempted a few too many unsuccessful holiday dinners.”
He passes me the peeler and the bowl of potatoes. “How about you do that while I finish up here?” He resumes his chopping.
I work at the pace of an arthritic grandmother, not wanting my time with Santiago to end. The way he completes tasks takes the definition of food porn to a whole new level. He moves along, working on different ingredients with such ease. I’m seriously tempted to fan myself with an oven mitt.
I grab another potato from the bowl and get to work. “What are you making for dinner?”
“Empanadas because they’re Marko’s favorite, and other tapas for us.”
Seriously, this man is a whole other level of irresistible. He cooks, he babysits, and he’s grumpy. My kind of kryptonite.
“Wow. Most kids like pizza and chicken nuggets, yet he likes fancy-sounding Spanish food.”
“Empanadas are anything but fancy.” Santiago laughs.
Way to make yourself sound classy to a millionaire, Chloe. “Oh. Right.” I ignore the heat crawling up my neck, hoping Santiago misses it.
Based on how his smile grows larger, I can’t count myself as that fortunate. His stare zaps my skin to life. “I can see why you think that based on how many ingredients we need. It’s my mom’s recipe. She taught me this one when I was a little older than Marko.”
“Really? Your mom is a smart woman, training you from a young age to be ideal husband material.” The words escape me before my filter intervenes. I’d smack myself if I didn’t have my hands occupied.
“More like I would beg Mami to teach me so I could steal pieces before dinner. But I won’t lie, it does come in handy though when I’m trying to impress a beautiful woman.”
Of course he cooks to lure in unsuspecting women. Why would I think I’m such a special snowflake that he cooks with?
“Has anyone told you that you have an extremely expressive face?” He points the tip of his knife in my direction.
If I had any sense of self-preservation, I’d consider it serial killer scary. “No. Why?”
“Because your smile dropped after I spoke. I should be clearer. I’m impressing you through empanadas, tapas, and good wine.”
My heart goes into overdrive, racing in my chest. “Really?”
He winks. I blush. The cycle repeats itself.
I clear my throat. “So, where is the wine you speak of because I could use a glass right about now?”
He shakes his head with a smile. “Not until after the pointy objects get put away.”
We work side by side, with Santiago explaining each step of the process. Together, we make a batch of empanadas. The ones I created are a bit wonky and stuffed to the brim, but Santiago laughed and cooked them anyway.
Santiago works on a couple of his tapas while I chug a glass of wine.
Marko comes when Santiago calls his name. The three of us sit together and eat, acting like some happy little family I have only experienced in Santiago’s presence. My youth didn’t include anything close to this. But instead of the typical coldness seeping through my veins at the idea of my past, a shot of something warm spreads through my chest.
Oh God. Don’t go getting attached to something you can never have.
I push aside the thoughts and focus all my attention on Marko. He distracts me with his babbling about all the fun stuff he did with his uncle today before I showed up.
“What are you doing next, Marko?” I look over at him.
“Mommy and Daddy take me racing.” He makes a zooming noise resembling a car as he flies an empanada into his mouth.
“Racing? Wow!” I laugh at the sight of him. The kid is so stinkin’ cute, I want him to stay for another week.
“They’re off to the next Prix once Maya picks him up tomorrow and joins Noah. They’ll spend the summer traveling around with the team before Marko starts school again.”
“That’s fun! Where are they going next?”
“Monza for the Italian Grand Prix.” He speaks low.
Marko claps his hands. “Yes! Italy! Daddy wins!”
I smile. “How do you know?”
“He’s the bestest.”
Santiago’s smile drops. The change is dark and unmistakable. Memories have a way of torturing us all, no matter the time or place.
I hate the look that crosses his face. Thinking with my heart rather than my brain, I blurt out something crazy because I want his sadness to disappear. “So, Santiago, what are your plans next week once Marko leaves?”
A couple of wrinkles mar his forehead as his eyebrows pull together. “Nothing much besides our dinner on Tuesday. Someone is delivering a new car for me to restore, so I guess I’ll work on that over the next few weeks.”
“Oh really? Do you remember that I love fixing cars? It’s a new passion of mine.”
His frown disappears as he cracks a smile. “Yes. I remember that fact about you. Vintage cars, right?”
“Oh, yes. The older the better.” That sounded like the right thing to say.
His smile turns into something downright devious. “Weird. I love vintage cars too.”
I press my palm into my chest and fake my shock. “Would you look at that? Who knew we had that in common! I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I joined you then to repair whatever car you picked?”
His guarded eyes meet mine. “Why would you want to do that?”
Yeah, Chloe, why? I remain calm and collected despite my racing thoughts. My actions barely make sense to myself, seeing as we never discussed spending time together outside of the ruse. But I can’t resist wanting to remove the sad look in his eyes when he thinks about his family racing without him. Even if it means letting my guard down.
