Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
How is this possible?
And how do we make it last?
“What can I do to help?” I immediately ask, tone much dreamier and more longing than it has any right to be.
“You,” Tate points with the utensil, “can have a seat right there,” he motions to the barstool chair I’m beside, “and let me do all the work.”
Defensively, I argue, “I’ll have you know I’m a grown ass woman. I know how to cook for myself.”
“And I never implied you couldn’t.”
Shit.
He didn’t, did he?
Sabotage.
I am clearly on a self-sabotaging mission.
No wonder the matchmaker hates me, and Nat routinely sends me believe in yourself memes.
“And just because you can, doesn’t mean you have to, linda.”
Outrage occurs at the same time my ass hits the cushioned seat. “Why the hell did you just call me Linda?! I’m Harper.”
Chuckles fall free prior to him putting the spoon down. “I wasn’t calling you Linda by name, but linda as in beautiful.” His palms plant themselves on the small empty counter space he has. “It’s Spanish.”
“Why do you speak Spanish if you’re Irish?”
His counter is given on a crooked grin. “Can people not be more than one thing?”
Why does he keep getting the upper hand in our conversations? Shouldn’t like age and experience come into factor around now? Shouldn’t that be in my favor? Doesn’t something have to be in my favor?
“My mother is Black and Dominican – born here in the states –, and my father is Irish, as in from Ireland.”
Fascination has me folding my frame slightly forward.
“I was born there, the Dublin area – like I previously mentioned –,” he continues to casually explain, “and we stayed until I was five almost six. We moved to Michigan when we found out my grandfather – my mom’s father – was dying. She wanted to be closer during his final days. She ended up being the child that spent most of her time lookin’ after him. He only lived about a year, and my grandma died just a few months after him, leaving no real reason for my parents to have to stay, but neither wanted to return to Ireland. They thought it’d best for me to be raised here instead. They moved us away from the Detroit area to Applecourt, which is where I primarily grew up. The old sayin’ in our family is we traded spuds for apples.”
Giggling can’t be helped.
“Being raised with three very different backgrounds kind of cultivated me into this clash of cultures that is just naturally in everything I do.”
“Are your tattoos a reflection of that?”
“Sí.” His pointed finger caresses skin I want to. “I’ve got a Celtic cross. The lucky clover with our family values and principles in both languages. There are a couple of hurling sticks with the Dominican flag draped around them.” The digit switches to the other side. “There’s the old-style microphone with the Elvis Presley signature through it surrounded by musical notes that contain the names of famous Black musicians like Nina Simone and Duke Ellington as well as some of my Irish favorites like The High Kings and Latin influences like Juan Luis Guerra.”
“Wow,” is airily released into the conversation.
He grows a brighter grin and gestures to the odd spread of food waiting to be cooked. “Even something as simple as breakfast is an interesting blend of all that I am.”
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I let it. “How did your parents meet?”
“Mom was in Ireland for holiday. Dad was her guide. The O’Clery clan owns a huge tourist company that caters to guiding, housing, and guaranteeing a good time while in the country. End of day one they met at a pub and connected over their mutual love for the greatest singer of all time.”
I silently wait for the extremely subjective next part of the statement.
“Elvis.”
Laughter leaks from me on a shake of the head. “You have got to be shitting me. Your parents bonded over liking Elvis?”
“Obsessing over Elvis, bella – which also means beautiful in Spanish.” He waggles his eyebrows for emphasis. “Obsessing. And that obsession has not only kept their marriage alive but been passed onto me hence the tattoo as well as this morning’s music choice.” Tate beams brightly and points to the speaker system that’s now pumping out “Hound Dog”. “However, I wanna be more than just a friend of yours.”
Heat blasts through my expression, yet the instinct to hide it never appears.
I let him see the effect of his words.
The response to his declarations.
His intents.
His fucking voice.
It doesn’t take long for the same hunger to flood his complexion but for some reason he doesn’t act upon it. “Tell me about your family.” He reaches for the produce to begin cutting. “Who taught you how to cook?”
My attention oscillates between watching his face and his hands while he works. “That would be my grandmother.”