Player(73)

“Loud and clear.” I found myself smiling.

When I set down my last plate, I stepped around the table and extended a hand. He rolled his eyes and swatted it away, though playfully.

“Don’t press your luck, dickhead.”

A chuckle rolled through them, and I realized I’d passed some sort of test. Tentatively at least.

Val burst into the room. Her eyes darted from face to face.

“Dante,” she warned, “I told you to leave him alone.”

“Please. When have you ever known me to leave a guy alone who wants to date you? Especially not an immoral fuck like Haddad.” He shot me a look.

Pain flashed behind her eyes at the mention of my past, and for the first time ever, I felt a pang of regret. I’d done nothing wrong, deceived no one. But that truth hurt her all the same.

And I hated it.

I stepped to her side. “It’s all right, Val. They’re just looking out for you. If the tables were turned, I probably wouldn’t have let me walk through the front door, never mind sit at the dinner table. No hard feelings. Right, guys?”

They grumbled their agreement.

She let out a worried sigh, her brows together. “You four have run off every guy who’s ever come around. Please, leave him alone.”

Max laughed. “Poor Sammy, you need conejita to stick up for you?”

My lips flattened. “I don’t need anyone to stick up for me. But I really think you ought to respect your sister whether you agree with her or not. And if you make her unhappy, then I suppose you’ll have to answer to me. I meant what I said.”

Rather than argue, Dante watched me for a moment with a glint of—was that appreciation? “Fair enough.” He jerked his chin at his brothers. “Come on. I think we could all use a beer.”

They filed out just like they’d filed in—with a glare and a scowl. But we’d come to an agreement, shaky though it might be, and I was calling that a win. Or at the very least, a draw.

She sighed when the last wide back disappeared. “God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

I laughed. “Of course I’m okay. We just had a little talk, that’s all. I like them. They’re scary as fuck, but I like them.”

Val leaned into me and sighed again. “This is stressing me out, Sam.”

I wrapped my arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “Hey, don’t worry about me. I knew I was walking in to a firing squad, and I came willingly. If I’m remembering right, I think I even invited myself.”

She chuckled. “I don’t understand you.”

I leaned back and captured her chin in my thumb and forefinger to tilt her face to mine. “What’s there to understand? I want to be the guy you bring home to meet your mom. I want to be good enough for you. I want Dante to see I’m serious. There’s nothing to understand beyond the fact that I want you, and I want to make you happy, whatever the cost. That’s it. It’s that simple. So just let me.”

Everything about her softened—her body, her face, her eyes, her lips. And so, I kissed those lips and told her without words that truth once more.





I leaned back from the table, so full that if I’d had another bite, I was sure paella would have spilled out of my nose.

Her brothers wore similar expressions. Alex held his fist up to his lips and stifled a burp.

“Hands down the best I’ve ever had, Abuela. Val, tell me you know how to cook this and that you can teach me. Otherwise I’m gonna be banging on Abuelita’s door for it weekly.”

Abuela laughed, her cheeks high and round. “Or conejita could bring you back again. I’ll feed you whenever you want, príncipe.”

Without any direction, Val’s brothers and father stood and began clearing plates. It seemed to be the way of things; the women cooked, and the men cleaned. I stood to pitch in, but Val stayed me with a smile.

“Let them,” she said quietly. “You’re our guest. It was bad enough manners that they let you help set the table. Abuela won’t stand to let you help clean, too.”

“It’s true. I won’t,” Abuela interjected.

Val’s mom laughed. “Come on, girls. Let’s get the vermouth. Papa, will you play?”

“Si, cari?o,” he answered, shifting his chair back, using the arms to lift his weight.

The women left, Val last, offering the sweetest smile before she disappeared into the kitchen.

I sighed, sitting back, not realizing that Abuelo had returned until he was almost on me. In each hand was the neck of a guitar.

“Valentina says you play. Will you play with me?” His voice was old Spanish leather, tanned and smooth.

“I’d be honored,” I answered honestly.

I took the guitar, a beautiful instrument. The strings were soft, the sound full and thick when I strummed.

Abuelo’s head bent, his face untroubled. There was no concentration, only a flickering emotion on his brow, a hint of a furrow deepening, the crease between flexing, relaxing. And he played. His fingers stroked the strings in a blur, every note in perfect time, perfect harmony. For a moment, I watched a master in awe and reverence.

And then I joined him as he’d asked.

It was a simple addition, a quiet succession of chords to whisper under his melody. When he sped, I sped. When he crescendoed, so did I. When he slowed and let the notes sing for themselves, I followed every lead.