Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“I’m… I’m still not dating, Judah.” I force myself to pull back far enough to look at him directly. “I shouldn’t have… I don’t mean to string you along.”
“You’re not.” He cups my chin, lifting it, his long fingers splayed over my throat. “It was a kiss. I won’t pretend I don’t want you, and I hope you won’t pretend what just happened didn’t just happen, but I respect your decision.”
“That kiss was—”
“I don’t regret it.” He bends down to kiss my hair, brushes it behind my ear and over my shoulder. “But I get it and I’ll wait.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“That doesn’t mean we can’t see each other at all,” he continues. “We did say we’re friends, right?”
“Friends. Yeah,” I agree cautiously. “I bet I look like I’ve been dragged through a bush, so I’m gonna try to sneak past the dining room and out to my car.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
“No, you don’t have to.” I bend to grab my purse, long forgotten, from the floor. “I’ll be fine on my own.”
He gifts me with one of his rare wide smiles. “Of that I have no doubt.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SOLEDAD
Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!” Hendrix says, loaded with shopping bags, when she enters the kitchen. “Bringing tidings of joy and rich-auntie energy.”
“Gifts!” Lottie claps. She knows Hendrix is heavy on the “rich” when it comes to presents. “Thank you, Aunt Hen!”
A glance into the bag confirms that Hendrix really outdid herself spoiling the girls this year.
“Now you showing out,” I tell her, shaking my head and smiling down into the bag.
“Just acting my wage,” she laughs. “What else am I gonna spend my money on?”
Lottie takes the bulging bag from Hendrix, visions of sugarplums and gift cards no doubt dancing in her head.
“We’re not opening gifts until midnight, Lottie,” I remind her.
“Awww, Mom.” She half-heartedly stomps one slippered foot.
“You girls are the ones who said you wanted a traditional Nochebuena.” I glance up from the fresh pan of pasteles. “Gifts at midnight. How you coming over there, Inez?”
“I’m making the achiote oil,” she says, pouring the red annatto seeds into a pot to warm.
“Good.” I nod to Lupe and her cutting board filled with vegetables. “When you’re done, help your sister with the yautia and malanga for the masa.”
“This batch is ready to go,” Lola says, entering from the butler’s pantry carrying a crate of brightly colored gift boxes and carafes of coquito.
“Oh, thank you,” I say, turning to Hendrix. “I told Cora I would swing by to drop off a batch of pasteles and some coquito. When I was over there for book club, she said she wanted to try them. I won’t be gone long, Lola.”
“Lola?” Hendrix looks from my sister to me. “Finally we meet!”
“Hendrix!” Lola sets the small crate on the counter and waves her arms, stutter-stepping toward one of my friends she’s heard so much about. “I feel like I already know you.”
Seeing my sister and one of my best friends hug like they’ve known each other forever when it’s their first time meeting makes me pause and smile. I’ve been going all day, trying to give the girls a true Nochebuena experience, but also pulling some last-minute gifts together to deliver to friends. Seeing people I love happy together makes all the rushing around worth it.
“Let me take your coat,” Lola says.
“Oh, I can’t stay.” Hendrix pulls the faux fur lapels of her coat up around her face. “Just left a mixer downtown for work. Now I gotta catch my flight to Charlotte. Spending Christmas with my mama, but I needed to swing through and get the pasteles Sol promised me.”
“I got you.” I reach into the crate of gift boxes and hand one to Hendrix. “As promised. You just missed Yasmen and Deja. They swung through to get theirs ’bout an hour ago.”
“We’re on the second batch.” Inez grins, now standing at the chopping block with Lupe, cutting up malanga.
“Y’all running a little pasteles factory up in here.” Hendrix eyes the banana leaves lined up, the pasteles machine, and the ingredients in various stages of preparation.
“It feels like the holidays when we were growing up,” Lola says wistfully. “Only we had Mami, all us girls, and a houseful of friends. We played dominoes all night. Our house was rocking for Nochebuena. Mami’d be blasting El Gran Combo’s En Navidad.”
“Our abuela’s favorite group,” I tell the girls, who appear to be riveted by this glimpse into the childhood Lola, Nayeli, and I cherish.
“‘They coulda been your abuelo,’” Lola says, imitating our grandmother’s heavily accented English. “‘All of ’em.’”
“Remember that time Abuela and Grammy came for Christmas?” I ask Lola, catching her eyes to resurrect a memory only we can truly appreciate.
“Ay, Dios mío,” Lola cackles. “We had pasteles cooking over here, oxtails and collard greens over there. Salsa blasting in the front room and Nat King Cole singing ‘The Christmas Song’ in the back.”