His Perfect Partner

by Priscilla Oliveras

  The remote, distant Tomás was back.

  “¿Estás bien, nena?” Papi called out to her.

  No, she was more like the opposite of fine. But she couldn’t yell that back to Papi. Well-practiced at pretending, she pasted a reassuring smile on her face and waved off his question.

  Tomás moved behind Maria to give her another push.

  Yaz stayed in front of the swing set, maintaining her distance from him. She made silly faces at Maria, giving her the occasional nudge on her knees to keep her going.

  She told herself to concentrate on her giggling student, not the child’s temperamental father.

  Unfortunately, that was like telling the tide not to come onto the shore. You could build that sandcastle all you wanted, but destruction was inevitable.

  If she was smart, she’d keep reminding herself of that inevitability.

  Chapter Five

  Following Rey’s directions, Tomás turned left into a subdivision nestled near the center of Oakton.

  Tall oak and Bradford pear trees shaded wide lawns scattered with richly colored fall leaves. He cruised past an older couple strolling hand in hand along the sidewalk, then slowed down even more when he spotted some kids darting across several adjoining yards in a spirited game of tag.

  The neighborhood was older, yet far from run-down. More like comfortable, inviting. Compared to his new neighborhood, where most of the trees were saplings recently planted by the builder, Yazmine’s street had a homey, established feel to it, similar to his parents’ back in McAllen.

  Nostalgia strummed a wistful chord in his chest. The distance separating him from his family seemed greater now that he’d moved to the suburbs, away from the diversity of inner-city Chicago. Vacations and holiday trips to Texas didn’t provide enough time together.

  Of course, his parents always asking when he planned on moving back didn’t help. No matter how often he tried to explain, they still hadn’t come to accept, much less understand, that his job and financial success were important to him. Both of which were more easily attainable in a city like Chicago.

  The move to the suburbs provided the comfortable family lifestyle he wanted for Maria. Yet the city skyline looming in the distance reassured him that he’d also be able to provide financial security for her. Something he’d lacked as a child.

  “Home, sweet home.” Reynaldo pointed to a red-brick two-story house with gray shutters up ahead. “Bienvenidos a mi casa.”

  In the back seat Maria craned her neck to see better. “Oooh, it’s pretty.”

  Tomás pulled into the driveway, mumbling his thanks to Reynaldo for his welcome.

  Frankly, he couldn’t believe he’d gotten himself roped into another meal with Yazmine. Even after finding out about her career plans yesterday, he’d still spent the morning trying to hit the delete, rather than the play button, on the mental video of last night’s vivid dreams.

  All co-starring Yazmine.

  Now he glanced at her in his rearview mirror. Mouth set in a grim line, she looked about as thrilled as he was by their forced dinner plans.

  “Come inside. The soup should be ready.” Reynaldo opened his car door and slid from the front passenger seat.

  Tomás followed suit. No turning back now.

  Maybe it’d help if he thought of this dinner as a fact-finding mission. An opportunity to confirm what he’d realized yesterday: As tempting as she might be, Yazmine Fernandez was not a woman for him to mess with.

  She had a one-way ticket aboard the next plane out of town burning a hole in her dance bag pocket.

  He, on the other hand, had his sights set on planting roots in Oakton.

  If there was one thing his failed marriage had taught him, it was that opposites do not attract. He’d do well to remember that.

  His head finally in the right place, Tomás grasped Maria’s hand to help her out of her booster seat. Together they followed Yazmine and Reynaldo up the cement walkway lined with orange and yellow chrysanthemums.

  Reynaldo lifted his foot to take the single step up to the front porch and he swayed to his left. Tomás lunged forward to grab him, nudging shoulders with Yazmine when she did the same.

  “Estoy bien. I’m fine,” Reynaldo repeated, shrugging them both off. “I missed the step. That is all. No need to worry.”

  His last words were directed at Yazmine, a parental warning in his tone.

  “Papi, maybe you should lie down.” Anxiety puckered Yaz’s brow.

  “And not enjoy our company? No, I said I am fine. Now quit fussing.”

  The older man unlocked the door and stepped inside. Yazmine moved aside for Maria and Tomás to pass by, but he caught the flash of fear and frustration in her caramel eyes. Yesterday she’d mentioned her concern about Reynaldo’s health. Hell, he’d feel the same way if Rey were his dad.

  “We’ll try to make this quick so he can rest,” Tomás said, stopping in the doorway to touch Yazmine’s shoulder in a show of support.

  Her gaze caught his.

  Fire shot through him. Confusion sparked in her eyes in the seconds before she blinked and looked away.

  “Thanks,” she whispered. The vulnerability in her soft voice, the worried quaver in the single word ensnared him. His grip on her shoulder tightened.

  He wanted to wrap his arms around her in comfort, offer his support. Only, he didn’t trust himself to stop there. His attraction was still too fresh. Too raw. Too dangerous for where they were headed—nowhere.

  “Excuse me, can I go in?” Maria squeezed in between them, knocking his arm off Yazmine’s shoulder. And him out of his stupor.

  Still, as he entered the open space of the family room, he flexed his fingers, certain Yazmine’s heat had left an imprint on his palm.

  She took their jackets without another word, turning to hang them on a wooden coatrack near the door. Tomás used the time to take in her family’s home.

  A pair of bongo drums bookended a dark-stained entertainment center to make unique fern stands that gave the room a cultural touch. Richly colored rugs dotted hardwood floors. However, it was the walls that drew his attention the most.

  Family portraits and framed candid snapshots intermingled with paintings and prints of Puerto Rico’s lush, tropical landscape. As the stairs ascended to the second floor, picture collages traveled up the length of the tan wall, maracas crisscrossed in pairs between them. The home’s atmosphere spoke of family ties and a strong connection to their heritage.

  It reminded him of his parents’ house back in Texas. Filled with mementos that were testaments to their love for their culture and history. His mom would feel right at home here, like he immediately did.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” Yazmine motioned to the coffee-colored microfiber sofa and recliner squared off in front of the entertainment center.

  Tomás peeked through the archway connecting the living room to a formal dining room. It flowed into the kitchen, where he caught sight of Reynaldo. The older gentleman stood at the kitchen counter removing the lid from a Crock-Pot. A puff of steam billowed forth, carrying the scent of simmering garlic and spices. Tomas’s stomach rumbled, his mouth watering in anticipation of the authentic Puerto Rican meal.

  “It smells delicious,” he called to Reynaldo, then he turned back to Yazmine. “Since we moved out here, I miss being able to easily stop by Twenty-Sixth Street for a taste of home.”

  “You’re in for a treat then,” Yazmine said. “Papi’s a great cook. My mom taught him well. You two go ahead and sit down while we get things ready.” She brushed past him, leaving behind her subtle scent of violets.

  Tomás glanced at Maria, bent over to peer at some photos on the end table. He should take advantage of the chance to peek into Yazmine’s past. Confirm why they weren’t compatible. Reynaldo shouldn’t be waiting on any of them though. The older man needed his rest.

  Instead of joining Maria near the couch, Tomás headed to the kitchen, where he found Yazmine shooing her father out of the w
ay.

  “Go sit down, Papi. You keep them company and I’ll have dinner on the table in a few minutes.”

  “I can help,” Tomás suggested.

  “I’m a good helper, too. Mrs. B and my papá always say so,” Maria chimed in from behind him.

  “I’m sure you are.” Yazmine’s worried gaze strayed to her father’s tired face.

  Tomás took the hint. “Maria, why don’t you ask Señor Fernandez to show you Yazmine’s trophy case, the one he mentioned on the drive over?”

  Maria’s eyes lit up like he’d suggested they eat dessert before dinner.

  Reynaldo chuckled at her enthusiasm. “Vente, nena. It’s downstairs in the basement.” He motioned for Maria to follow him and she hop-skipped out of the room behind Reynaldo’s shuffling figure.

  Suddenly, Tomás found himself alone with Yazmine. Something he’d thought about for a ridiculous amount of time.

  “If only Maria could pass along some of her energy to my dad,” Yazmine said with a sigh. “He could definitely use it.”

  “Couldn’t we all.”

  “Yeah.” She huffed out a short laugh. “I guess you’re right.”

  “How’s he doing?” Tomás stepped farther into the kitchen. “Has he said anything about his next doctor appointment?”

  Arms folded across her chest, Yazmine leaned back against the counter, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “No. Honestly, it scares me. I can tell he hasn’t been feeling well.”

  Tomás opened his mouth to offer some words of advice, wanting to calm the shakiness in her voice. Erase the stark fear in her eyes.

  She stopped him with a raised hand. “I’m sorry. You didn’t come to hear my sob story again. We’ll be fine. I’m venting, and I shouldn’t be.”

  Turning away, she picked up a large wooden spoon and dipped it into the slow cooker.

  She was right. She shouldn’t confide in him. Worse, he shouldn’t want her to.

  Things would get messy—for him and Maria—if he didn’t keep his distance.

  Head bent, Yazmine continued stirring the soup. The mouthwatering aroma beckoned Tomás closer to peer over her shoulder. Reynaldo’s invitation had mentioned stew, but this didn’t smell like anything he’d eaten growing up.

  “Not your regular beef and potato concoction, is it?”

  “Even better. It’s one of my mom’s Puerto Rican specialties. Asopao de gandules. Pigeon pea soup.”

  “Smells delicious.” Tomás took the spoon from her when she moved to put it down. He swirled it through the mixture, then turned in time to catch Yazmine reaching for some bowls high up in a cabinet.

  Her ivory sweater crept up, treating him to a glimpse of her toned stomach above the edge of her low-rise jeans.

  Now his mouth watered for a completely different reason.

  His gaze traveled down the length of her legs and back up, past her elegant neck to the delicate curve of her jaw. Her dark, silky ponytail trailed over her shoulder, brushing across her breast.

  Damn, if she wasn’t the epitome of sexy and alluring.

  He gulped, quickly turning back to stir the soup when Yazmine moved toward him, bowls in hand.

  “Here.” Yazmine tugged open a drawer to remove four soup spoons. She dipped one in the pot, then held it toward him with an open palm below it. “Pruébalo.”

  He didn’t think twice, his stomach urging him to follow her suggestion to taste the delicious-smelling food.

  His mouth closed over the spoon, his eyes drifting shut on the burst of flavor.

  “Mmmmm.” He moaned his approval, and was answered by the soft sound of Yazmine sucking in a quick breath.

  His eyes shot open.

  She stood in front of him, one hand holding the spoon, the other cupped below his chin. He licked his lips, savoring the flavors on his tongue. Unable to resist thinking about savoring her.

  The intimacy of the situation crackled around them. Strong, electric. Dangerous.

  Yazmine eased back.

  He swallowed slowly. Wanting more. Wondering about more. Like, would she taste as good?

  Probably better. He’d lay money on it.

  “What do you think?” she asked, her voice a husky rasp.

  He thought he might be in trouble. Fat chance of him admitting that out loud. “I think you need to share your recipe with Mrs. B.”

  “Maybe I will.” She dropped the used spoon in the sink with a clatter, then grabbed another one from the drawer. “If you’re good.”

  “Depends on your definition of good.” The double entendre slipped out before he could stop it.

  She flashed him an impish grin. “You’re incorrigible, sabes?”

  “Yeah, I know.” Not to mention a little insane.

  She laughed and he found it too easy to join her. Too easy to fall into the trap of going with what felt good, instead of what was right.

  Damn, he could get in a lot of trouble here.

  His strategy of using this visit to stifle his attraction was in danger of failing. Miserably.

  “Maybe we should get dinner on the table.” He winced at the unintentional abruptness of his words.

  Yazmine’s smile faltered.

  He softened his tone as an apology. “I meant, it’s getting late. Your father’s tired.”

  Not to mention, he wasn’t making any headway in creating distance between them. On the contrary, he felt far too comfortable joking and flirting with her in the privacy of her kitchen.

  Yazmine stared at him in silence. He sensed her measuring her words, measuring him.

  When she finally spoke, it was with the cool demeanor she’d first greeted him with on Wednesday.

  “There’s juice and milk in the refrigerator. Why don’t you make yourself useful and grab the drinks while I serve up the asopao?”

  Great, he’d annoyed her again. Guilt gnawed at him, but he steeled himself against it.

  Better to be on her bad side than on the receiving end of another inviting grin. Her smiles led him to forget about important things—like lines in the sand that should be left uncrossed.

  * * *

  “So you and your group actually recorded an album?” Tomás asked her father with surprise.

  “Sí, at a studio in Chicago. We sold copies at our performances.”

  Pride for Papi swelled up in Yaz. She leaned back in one of the recliners in the library corner of the basement—Rosa’s corner—listening to his and Tomás’s conversation.

  As soon as Tomás had asked about one of the black-and-white photographs of Papi and the other two men in Los Paisanos, she’d known the conversation would be anything but short.

  If there was one thing Papi loved almost as much as his family, it was his music. His passion flowed in his words and the sparkle in his eyes.

  Even though Yaz had spent the better part of the past two hours peeking at her watch, anxious for Tomás and Maria to leave, she didn’t wish for that anymore. She couldn’t. Not when she saw the joy in Papi’s face as he spoke about his band and the gigs they’d played back in the day.

  It was the same expression he wore when he talked about what he called her “unquestionable success” on the stages of New York. It was what pushed her to succeed.

  “What kind of music?” Tomás asked.

  “Romanticismo. The old standards, as they say here. Romantic ballads that have helped men woo their women for generations. It’s how I won over my Marta, Yaz’s mamá.”

  Tomás and her dad grinned at each other like two buddies swapping locker room stories. Yaz rolled her eyes at the machismo.

  “Ay, pués. It’s mostly mis compadres, they know how to set the tempo of a party.”

  That was her father. Proud, yet modest.

  “Well, nothing, Papi. It’s not just your buddies,” Yaz called out.

  Side by side in front of the keyboard, flipping through pictures from different venues Los Paisanos had played over the years, Tomás and Reynaldo looked over their shoulders at her. One m
an older, shorter, tired, but handsome in her eyes; the other far too sexy for his own good.

  Or hers, anyway.

  “The group wouldn’t have been the same without you and you know it,” Yaz continued. “Who booked the festival gig that brought you here from Puerto Rico? And who finagled that first recording opportunity? Los Paisanos were a wonderful team, with you leading the way as much as the others. And you still are.”

  Tomás drew back in surprise. “So the group still plays?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Yaz laughed, recalling the inside joke she’d heard throughout her childhood. “Even their wives couldn’t keep them apart.”

  “No, pero el cáncer si lo hizo.” Papi’s grim words instantly dulled their buoyant mood. He stepped away from the keyboard, haphazardly strumming his fingers along the strings of a nearby guitar.

  “No it didn’t. Papi, don’t think like that. You’ll be back, stronger than ever.” Regret nipped at her conscience for bringing up the subject. “So you took some time off to regain your strength. Next summer you’ll be serenading the crowds at Chicago’s annual Puerto Rican festival again. Maybe we’ll even get Rosa out there to dance, huh?”

  “Esa nena?” Papi’s laugh turned into a cough and he put a hand to his chest. “That girl never joins in. I told her she’d have to dance with me on her wedding day.”

  Yaz watched his gaze stray to Maria, his expression wistful.

  Maria stood at the ballet barre Papi had installed when Yaz was little. Over the years she’d spent countless hours practicing, stretching, and honing her technique there. Oftentimes while she’d danced, Los Paisanos rehearsed and Rosa sat in a recliner reading. Mami’s footsteps would sound overhead as she whipped up something tasty in the kitchen. And Lilí, the energetic tomboy, basically ran around getting into everything. Their house had been loud, full of laughter, love, and music. Always music.

  “Here, let me show you how.” Reynaldo shuffled over to stand next to Maria at the barre. Their reflection in the mirror-lined wall let loose a swarm of memories, stealing Yaz’s breath.

  How many times had Papi joined her there, teasing her with his clownish attempt at a plié? She’d looked forward to moments like this, watching him joke around with his granddaughter. Her little girl.