This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(50)

“You knew I was making the basket?”

“Of course. That’s why I ordered it.” One side of his mouth skews into a wry grin. “I’ve actually never had focaccia, but I figured if you were making it, it would be good.”

“So you ordered the basket to… like help me?”

“You don’t need my help. You seem to be doing well enough on your own. Viral salad dressings and millions of followers.”

“Just two million,” I say with a smile. “Have you been stalking me, Mr. Cross?”

I allow my tone to tease, but when he looks up directly at me, catching my eyes and holding my stare, I’m mesmerized by the intent there.

“Is that bad?” he asks. “That I wanted to know how you were doing?”

My heart abandons any normal rhythm and just hammers, pounding beneath my ribs, where my breath is being held hostage.

“Bad?” I finally manage. “No. I… uh… we haven’t talked, so I get it.”

“I figured you wouldn’t want contact with anyone from CalPot for a while. I didn’t want to bother you, but I hoped you and your daughters were doing well.”

“We have been.” I run damp palms down my jeans. “It’s been an adjustment, and there were times when I thought… well, that maybe we’d have to leave Skyland, but so far we’re making it.”

“I never got to personally thank you for the tip about Amber and Gerald,” he says. “I missed them, but Edward rubbed me the wrong way the moment we met. I have an instinct about people.”

“What was your instinct about me?” The words barged right out of my mouth without my permission, and I drop my gaze to the wide wooden planks of his porch. I didn’t mean to say that. I shouldn’t have said that. “What I mean is—”

“Oh, I liked you a lot right away,” he answers, his voice dipping to a low rumble. “I still do.”

I glance up sharply to meet the warmth of his stare. I lick my lips, push my hair away from my face, touch my throat. The restlessness of a schoolgirl, ill fitting on a woman my age… and yet I can’t slow my heartbeat. I can’t catch my breath with the scent of him—clean and distinct and masculine—overwhelming me. Those penetrating eyes resting on my face must see beneath the skin-deep disguise of my composure. Does he know how he affects me?

“You, um, were saying something about Amber and Gerald,” I remind him, swatting at the butterflies fluttering in my belly. “I heard Gerald cut a deal.”

“Yeah, he and Amber got off pretty light once they agreed to give up any info we were still missing.”

The judge held Edward and Gerald primarily responsible for the scheme and deemed Amber’s involvement only “limited,” resulting in a much lighter sentence.

“In some ways,” I say, hearing a touch of bitterness in my voice, “seems like my daughters and I got the shortest end of the stick.”

His smile fades, and he reaches for my hand.

“I know you probably won’t take me up on this, Soledad, but if you ever need anything, you can call me.”

It would be so tempting to lean on him when times are hard because a man like him will always be harder. Judah would be a wall, a fortress. A shelter. He’s the kind of man you can count on, but I’m done counting on men. He’s the kind of man who, with just a touch of his hand on yours, sends you into fantasies. I carefully withdraw my hand and give him a smile.

“That’s kind of you,” I tell him. “But I think we’ve found our footing.”

“I was thinking, now that things have settled down some, maybe we could grab coffee or—”

“Mom!”

Oh, shit.

Inez.

It’s illogical and unfair, but Inez still places a lot of the blame on Judah Cross simply from Edward’s consistent bad-mouthing of the man. She’s never seen Judah and wouldn’t make the connection, but I still turn immediately and dash down the steps before she comes closer. She’s standing by the Pilot, staring up the street at Judah’s house.

“I gotta go!” I yell, trotting down the porch steps. “Hope you enjoy the basket.”

I hazard a quick glance over my shoulder for one last glimpse of the man I’ve thought about so many times since we first met. Even when it was wrong and impossible. Even when it was unwise. He looks from me to Inez waiting by the car, and I think he understands. He doesn’t wave or say goodbye but simply nods, his mouth set in a firm line, and goes back inside.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN





SOLEDAD


Okay,” Hendrix says, laying her spoon beside her bowl on the dining room table. “You were right. Your chili should be famous.”

“Told you.” I shrug. “I add sofrito for a little sweetness and deeper flavor. Picadillo style.”

“You have to show me how to make that,” Yasmen says. “You know I’ve been stepping up my cooking game.”

“I hadn’t made it in a while, but I found my mother’s pilón she used to mash the ingredients, and it prompted me to start.”

“Well, it’s delicious,” Hendrix says. “Thanks again for dinner.”

“It’s the least I can do after all your help,” I tell them. “Not just today with the deliveries, but the lead-up. I really started feeling like I had bitten off more than I could chew.”