Abashed, he changes from a borderline punk to what he is, a seventeen-year-old with no focus. “Yes, ma’am.”
“The same goes for your so-called friends. I just saw one of them almost knock over Mr. Paul. The poor man can hardly see where he’s going, Luis.” My voice is laced with exasperation.
“Right,” he mumbles.
“Listen.” I lay a hand on his arm briefly before letting it drop. “You can be a leader or a follower. Either way you’re going to get what you deserve. What do you want?”
“That sounds like a challenge, Ms. P.”
“She’s good at them,” Jonas pipes in. His eyes are kind of scary right now. “Make sure you’re the kind of man up to accepting them.”
That seems to penetrate. Luis slaps Jonas on the back and winks at me before putting his big hand on Annie’s head and ruffling her hair. She giggles. He fist pumps Chris before dashing to catch up with his friends. But not, I note smugly, before he stops to have a quiet word with Mr. Paul.
The line surges forward again before Jonas speaks almost conversationally. “Do you realize your ‘friend’ is a member of a gang?”
“What on earth are you talking about? He’s just a young—”
Swinging me around, Jonas wraps an iron-hewn arm around my waist to pull me against him. “I like you, Trina. I don’t want to see this smart mouth displayed on the front page of my newspaper because you told a Neta how to behave. They don’t take too kindly to that.”
“Neta? He told me that was the name of his ex-girlfriend.”
Jonas passes a hand through my hair I pulled half up before leaning down to whisper in my ear, “T, that gang has been in the paper most often for being involved in organized crime around drugs. They’ve also been involved in a variety of other crimes including burglary, robbery, firearms, and trafficking. They were the subject of a federal racketeering investigation in New York City, involving attempted and actual murder, assaults, and a whole host of other things.” He hesitates before telling me the rest. “Rikers Island used to be called ‘Planet Neta’ since a branch of the gang resided in each building.”
“But Jonas—” I cling to his shirt as the line shunts forward again. “He’s just a boy. He’s Carlita’s grandson. He wouldn’t…” I leave the rest of my question unsaid. Because I really don’t want to know.
“And keep it on that level. Think of him at the crossroads of Luke and Vader.”
Jerking back, I yell, “You’re giving me a Star Wars analogy?”
Behind me, a man mutters, “I don’t care what he gives you as long as we get closer to the front of the line. This is the only time I can get García’s. Line’s too damn long for me to wait on.”
Oops. “I’m so sorry.” We push the stroller ahead a few feet before Jonas begins talking again.
“Like I said, I’ve learned a lot about you I like this past week. I don’t want to see you taken out with a salt with a deadly weapon.”
It takes me a moment before I burst out laughing. “Oh. My. God. You’re the one killing me—by using all these food puns!”
Guiding us to the edge of the tent, he scans the menu before murmuring in my ear, “I have a weakness for them. Julian finds the best ones and has them framed for me for my birthday, Christmas, any holiday he can make up.”
And knowing that little weakness about him warms my insides. As he scans the menu, I ask him, “How hot do you like things?”
His head twists to look down at me. Just as he’s about to open his mouth to say something that will likely make me want to punch him and turn my insides all gooey, I quickly warn him, “If you like your taste buds, don’t go extra spicy.”
Jonas throws me a wink. “Ah, so that’s what you meant.” Before I can cock my arm, he turns to order. “We’ll take two full specials. Not spicy. Four bottles of water, and do you have anything for kids?”
“Tortillas. Rice. You want both.”
Jonas frowns but orders two of each. I’m reaching in my wallet to pay him back when he singes me with a glare. Getting our food, he pulls out his wrap. “Is there a spot to eat?”
Spinning in place, I remark, “Good a place as any.”
He crouches in front of Chris. Pulling out a piece of the chicken, he raises his brow in question. I nod my assent before he cajoles my son, “Want to give this a try, buddy?”
Chris purses his lips, uncertain.
“It’s chicken,” Jonas tries again, but before the words are out, Chris is yanking the meat from his fingers and shoving it in his mouth.
Just as quickly, Chris is spitting it out. It lands smack-dab in the middle of Jonas’s glasses and dribbles down the side of his face. Chris face turns beet red before he begins to wail.
“Hold on, baby. Mama has some bread. It will make the heat go away,” I soothe him. I look to Jonas but don’t find him nearby. When I finally spot him, he’s stalking back over to the tent where we bought the food. “Crap.” I shove the rest of the tortilla in Chris’s hands—to his delight—and begin pushing the stroller through people like I’m playing a game of Mario Kart until I’m next to an infuriated Jonas Rice.
“All I’m asking for is some plain, unseasoned chicken to be cooked. Why can’t that be accommodated?” The chicken Chris spit at him is still stuck to his skin.
“Why you care? Not your kids; not your concern,” the cashier announces. I feel a wash of anger and shame when the woman I recognize from previous visits jerks her head in my direction.
The vortex of air sucked in through Jonas’s lungs at that statement leaves almost none for the rest of us. Quickly I rush in with, “Perhaps he’s trying to help you with your business?”
“Bah, what does he know?” She moves to turn away, a woman settled in her traditional ways.
But it occurs to me while Jonas went about it the wrong way—he should have saved it for his column—and the owner might regret her behavior, they both should know who they’re dealing with. “Señora García, this is Jonas Rice—the food critic with City Lights. Jonas, this is Señora Maya García. She’s owned García’s for the last thirty years here in the Bronx. You should find time to talk with her how she’s managed to keep such a microscopic restaurant open—and why she can’t alter the menu too much.” With that, I angle the stroller away.
While waiting, I feed Chris and Annie the rice and tortillas they devour without hesitation. By the time Jonas joins us again, he’s calmer. “First—” He crouches down and gets Chris’s attention away from the multitude of people wandering around. “I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to feed you something you didn’t like.”
My son’s only response is to blow a raspberry before giving Jonas a toothy smile. But another wall is torn down by the tender way Jonas rubs his big hand over Chris and then Annie’s heads before standing. Then, he hands me something heavy in a bag without a word.
“What’s this?” I exclaim.
“A gift from Señora García. She said she doesn’t have time to cook it up, but it’s fresh chicken for you.” I protest when Jonas lays his thumb over my lips. “When she realized it was because of the work you do that I’m here covering restaurants like hers, this was her way of saying thank you.”
I catch Señora García’s eye, hold up the bag, and nod appreciatively. I ask Jonas, “What did you say to her?”
“Just that she should survey her clients to see how many have kids. If it’s worth it, maybe she should cook up some plain chicken as the only kids item.” He shrugs. I gape at him. “It would increase her sales without her overhead.”
And without thinking, I grab his cheeks, with the pounds of raw chicken still in one hand, and lay a smacking kiss on his lips. “Sheer genius,” I declare before I busy myself finding a spot in my cooling bag for the chicken.
When I straighten, Jonas is in my space. “I just want you to know, in no way does that count as our first kiss.” His voice is barely a rasp. “I don’t want a million eyes on us when I slide my mouth onto yours for the first time.
” Taking the handles of the stroller from me, he asks, “Where to next?”
“Fresh fruits.” I clear my throat once. Twice. “Right over there. I made the kids a promise of fresh bananas.”
A chant of “Nanners!” comes from the inside of the rented stroller. I chuckle. But then I almost swallow my tongue when Jonas looks over the edge of his designer sunglasses. God, why do men look so damn hot doing that?
Before I can speak, Jonas is shoving a wrapped chicken sandwich in my hand. “Better eat, Chef. I don’t think Señora García will take kindly to both of us commenting about her food in one day.”
Blindly, I go to take a bite when I realize it’s still covered in foil. “Oops. Hold on a second.” I quickly unwrap a corner before I push the handle in the direction we need to be heading to. “I’m ready to go.”
“I’ll let you lead the way.” I let out a relieved sigh as I begin to push the twins, but before I can get more than a few inches, I hear Jonas’s voice. “For now.”
My soul lets out a moan even as I say a breathless “Okay. For now.”
Chapter 13
Jonas
I trail behind Trina as she carries two exhausted toddlers in her arms off the elevator. The swish back and forth of her long legs encased in tight jeans does nothing for the comfort of my own. Fortunately, I can use the reusable shopping bags as camouflage to hide the effects of having spent a day with her.
My mind is whirling as baby-fine blond hair tangles with her own. She’s whispering something about finding her keys. I step closer. “Let me help.” Our eyes clash over the backs of her children.
I don’t know about Trina, but throughout the day, I’ve been hard-pressed not to drag her against me to finish what started in her kitchen last night. The overwhelming desire to press my lips against hers is overriding my senses for everything—including food. And every piece of food I tried from the different vendors was bland when compared to the contentment on her face. How am I supposed to do my job when the chicken verde wrap from García’s had about the same impact as the hunk of frozen banana forced into my mouth by an overeager toddler? After all, I lost all sense of flavor when I glanced up from Annie’s cherubic face into Trina’s laughing one.
Watching the smile blossom across Trina’s lips brought me the greatest pleasure over anything I could have eaten. I could write columns about that, I muse. Stepping closer, I repeat, “Let me help you. Where are your keys, Trina?”
“In my front pocket. If I lift Annie a little, then you should be able to see the…”
My hand drops to her hip. Is it my imagination, or does her breath—which was fine carrying forty pounds of children two blocks—begin to struggle? Due to my position, there’s no bags and children between us when I pluck the keys from her jeans. The jangling noise seems to echo loudly in the hallway that’s empty except for us. “Which one goes where?” I ask, confused with the brightly printed keys.
“From top to bottom: animals, balloons, cactuses. You know, ABC, 123.”
Turning, I say drolly, “Let’s just hope a master cracksman doesn’t follow you home,” as I unlock her door and swing it open.
“There’s not much to take.” Trina shrugs as she passes by.
Just as she does, I reach out with the hand to still her. “Things don’t mean a damn. It’s the people who live here I’m really beginning to like. So, do me a favor.” I slip the key ring into her back pocket, my hand lingering for just a moment over the curve of her ass. I’m gratified when her breath catches. “Don’t share that system with just anyone.”
“Oh-okay. Let me just…I’ll just…” I’ve always had a love of words, but I think I found something I might enjoy just as much—a newfound appreciation for making Trina lose hers. Taking a deep breath, she manages to string together a couple of complete sentences. “Let me put the kids down. Then I’ll put away the groceries if you don’t mind leaving them in the kitchen. Help yourself to anything you find in the fridge.”
“I think I can handle what’s in these unless you have a problem with me poking around a bit.” I lift my wrist.
Trina blushes. “I don’t want to put you to work, Jonas. It’s enough you carried them for me.”
I step forward and run a finger down her cheek. Her eyes dilate wildly. Before she can retreat, I use that same finger to touch the silky hair on both Chris and Annie’s heads. “Get your children down, Trina. Groceries can wait.” And so can I. “They can’t.”
“Right.” Without another glance my way, she heads down the short hall to the bedroom and closes the door.
I turn into the kitchen and slide the bags off my wrist. Rubbing the indents left behind from holding them too long, I begin pulling out the plastic-wrapped fruits and veggies, leaving them on the small kitchen table. And my mind drifts to the other room.
She’s such a dichotomy: brilliant chef, strong and caring mother, loyal friend, and a sassy woman who’s beginning to distract me when I work—something no one’s ever been able to do before. “What am I supposed to do about you?” I crush the folded bag in my hands.
“I don’t know. I’m having the same problem myself.” Her voice washes over me. If my feet weren’t braced apart, I suspect the sound of it might have me falling flat into Chris’s bananas.
“I’m not used to feeling like this,” she admits quietly as she approaches me. My head drops. As she gets closer, I notice she’s shucked off her shoes and socks. Likely why I didn’t hear her approach on the parquet floors, I note absurdly.
“Like what?” My voice is gruff, even to my own ears. Dropping the empty bag on top of the pile of neatly stacked food, I inhale the scent of something I’ve craved like nothing else before. Or, I worry, nothing I might after.
“Worthy. Wanted. When you haven’t felt desire for a man in this long, it’s disconcerting.” In the kitchen, there’s only a trace of light filtering in from the living room, so her face is cast in shadows, but I hear the vulnerability in her voice.
“If I were to ask you on a date, right now, what would you say?” I demand.
“It’s not that simple, Jonas. I have to worry about who watches the kids and…”
“If it was just you, Trina. What would you say?”
“But it’s not just me. It’s never going to be just me. Don’t you understand that?” You could hear a pin drop between us. If I listen hard enough, I’m certain I could hear the rise and fall of her children’s chests as they sleep peacefully in a room down the hall.
I move forward until she’s leaning against the entryway of the kitchen and living room. “Trina?”
“Jonas.” My name comes out as a rasp. It’s sexier than hell.
“I know all about your responsibilities. I happen to find them incredibly appealing because they’re a part of you.”
“What are you saying?”
“That unless you tell me you don’t want this, I’m going to kiss you.” I snag Trina’s wrist and lift it to my lips.
“Are you sure this is a good idea? What about the review?” Her voice quavers even as she squares those shoulders that carry the burden of so much.
“Fuck everything else,” I growl as I step in between her legs. Her chest bumps against mine as she makes room for my body against hers. “We’re going into this with eyes wide open. And the first time I kiss you, I want yours to be.” I begins to lower my head. I get a glimpse of her darting her tongue out over bottom lip, and it’s like adding that extra dash of flavor before our lips collide.
And the minute they do, I know I’ll never write another five-star review ever again because the taste of this woman has ruined every other flavor in the world.
I slide my hands up her wrists until I reach her elbows. As I guide her arms up, Trina’s surprise changes to need. On a moan, she changes the angle of her mouth and her fingers slide up around my neck, tangling in my hair, fisting it. Pulling back, I brush her nose with mine and whisper, “Keep those beautiful eyes open.”
The light of fire s
parks in those blue eyes. She rises on her toes until her body is pressed flushed against mine. “Let’s see if you can manage to do the same,” she challenges me before she presses her mouth hotly against mine.
Her tongue immediately glides over my lips, seeking entrance to my mouth. Parting them, I meet the thrust of her tongue with my own, raising her provocation with my desire. Hunger butting up against something more.
Something I’ve never felt before.
I don’t know whose eyes drift shut first. Frankly I don’t give a damn. This isn’t the kind of battle where there’s a winner or a loser—not if care is taken with both players. We stand there wrapped in each other’s arms, pressed against that doorjamb in that tiny kitchen for God only knows how long before a small sound drags us apart.
It’s a cry of “Mama?” coming from Annie.
As Trina draws back, her teeth drag along my lower lip. “I’m being paged.” She ducks her head as she begins to turn away.
“Trina,” I growl. She whips her head up, and everything I hoped to see is waiting right there on her face. Even though her face is flushed pink, her eyes are glowing bright.
“I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll go stick my head in the freezer considering how berry dangerous you are.”
Much to my delight, she laughs before jogging away to see what’s wrong with her little girl.
Running my hands through my hair, I make my way back into the kitchen and open the freezer door. With my head inside, I contemplate the fire of that kiss. Then I recall what she said about not feeling worthy or wanted, and I ask aloud, “Are men just stupid?”
“If you ask Elle, the answer to that is yes,” Trina replies.
I bang my head on the inside freezer shelf as I jolt, hearing her voice. “Da—”
“Rnit. Shucks,” Trina emphasizes.
Ducking my head, I move out of the freezer to see Annie curled up in her mother’s arms with dried tears on her face. “What happened?” I immediately ask.
“Nono!” Annie reaches for me. I reach for her delicate weight even as I glance at her mother for permission.
Challenged by You: A Fusion Universe Novel Page 10
