The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men #7)(6)

Tomás grasped my elbow. “Hijo de puta, it’s dead already. Stop torturing the poor dough.”

I scowled at him but obeyed, yanking up the rolling pin and flattening it into a disc. Crossing his arms over his chest, my perceptive cousin leaned his back against the table beside me as he studied my face.

“They’re not the only band around, you know.”

I ground my teeth, trying to ignore him as I snagged a knife, then a nearby plate to use as a stencil and cut the dough into perfect circles. “But they’re the best band.”

He snorted. “Matter of opinion.”

A die-hard Los Horóscopos de Durango fan, he didn’t get my fascination with all things pop, rock, or punk.

“Hey, wipe the glum off your face. Abuela’s here tonight, working the cash register. Seeing her is always reason to smile. Plus, she’ll know as soon as she gets a look at you that something’s wrong. You don’t want to upset our fragile, aging grandmother, do you?”

After he arched a censorious eyebrow at me, I sighed and let my shoulders deflate. “No. You’re right. I’ll stop being a drama queen.”

“Bien. Because it makes you a total pain in the ass to be around.” Then he picked up a handful of flour and flicked it at me...as if that would help cheer me up or something.

“Tomás Emmanuel Fernando Casta?eda!” I screeched in outrage and tore off my hairnet, frantically brushing flour from my locks. “How could you? Pendejo.”

“Elisa!” The sharp crack of my uncle’s voice instantly had me snapping to attention and lifting my shoulders until my back was military straight.

Fuck. Even though I felt like I was at home in this building where I’d spent most of my childhood, I never failed to flinch at that voice. But I hated getting caught spouting expletives in front of Tío Alonso. It reminded me too much of when I was little and he’d smack my knuckles with a spatula every time he heard me curse.

He no longer verbally censored my language or took a spatula after me, but he sure as hell sent me the ultimate scowl of disapproval as he plowed into the room.

Drawing in a short, bracing breath before turning around, I looked up at him and said, “?Sí?”

“Llegas tarde.”

I shifted my weight uneasily from one foot to the other as I stared at the patriarch of my family. Though I had lived with and been raised by my grandmother, Tío Alonso—my grandmother’s oldest son as well as Big T’s dad—had been the only father figure in my life since I was two. So, despite the fact I didn’t care for his autocratic attitude, he still knew how to make me behave...and rebel.

After lifting my chin, I gave him a tight nod. “Yeah, I know I’m late. I’m sorry, but I...” I paused, trying to come up with a plausible reason for my tardiness that wouldn’t get me an overly long lecture—since he abhorred my love for his least-favorite kind of music—but he obviously didn’t want to hear excuses today.

“Carmen didn’t come in tonight. We need you up front, pronto.”

I bit back an immediate curse. But...damn it. I hated waitressing more than anything. Fingering the hem of my sweater, I said, “I’m not dressed to work out front.”

“Solo hazlo,” he muttered his command.

“Sí, tío querido.” My answer made him scowl, because it reminded him how much of a tyrant I’d repeatedly told him he was. He hated it when I called him uncle dearest in my sweet angelic voice, like some kind of meek servant—since he knew I was anything but meek or sweet—about as much as I hated how he refused to call me by my first name.

Tío Alonso was the only person on earth who addressed me as Elisa, my middle name, because he thought Remy was much too masculine and not nearly Latin enough for his taste.

“And Elisa?” he grumbled, his accent thickening with his irritation.

I sighed, wondering what he was going to pick on now. “?Sí?”

“Limpia tu camisa.” He waved his pointer finger at my sweater.

I glanced down to see flour spotting the cloth. Muttering under my breath, I beat at it, to clean it off as best I could while Tío Alonso pushed his way back through the doorway and left us.

Behind me, Big T chuckled softly at my scolding.

“Idiota,” I hissed at him, using the much more kosher word this time, just in case Tío Alonso could still hear us. “Look what you did to me.”

He only smirked harder. “Hey, I didn’t know you were going to be forced to waitress tonight.”

“How about you wait tables then, and I’ll finish up these empanadas,” I begged, fluttering my lashes at him. But I must’ve tried that trick one too many times; he totally wasn’t swayed.

“Not on your life, prima. Get out there.”

“Asshole.” I flipped him off before hurrying my way through the doorway and finding myself behind the front counter facing the dining area where dozens of tables were already full. Ugh! I so did not have the disposition to be a good server tonight, and since it was a Monday, more of the family scene would be present, including obnoxious bratty kids and irritable fed-up parents.

The joy.

Wherever the hell Carmen was, I hoped her absence from here was worth it, because I was going to kill her for making me go through this today of all days. If I hadn’t been forced to work right now, I’d be at home, slaughtering Nazis or zombies on my Call of Duty game...because I was in the perfect mood to draw some virtual blood.