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SKYLAR AWOKE ON THE sofa and rubbed her eyes. She accidentally touched the sore spot on her forehead and made a small gasp.
A sigh came from nearby and she startled. Then she spotted Enrique crashed out on Joe’s chair, his legs stretched over the ottoman, shoes off. She sat up, assessing her balance. It seemed okay, so she tiptoed toward the bathroom. When she returned, he stirred and opened his eyes.
“Sorry. You can go back to sleep.”
He rubbed his hands over his face. “You’ve been keeping me up late this week.” His voice was lower and a bit rough. She loved the sound even more than the rumble of his motorcycle.
“True. I suppose I should say I’m sorry for that, too.” She sat on the couch and pulled her legs up, snuggling under the blanket again.
“How are you feeling?” Enrique stretched, his arms a big V.
Skylar remembered how it felt to be held by them. The warm feeling was quickly eclipsed by guilt. “My headache is gone.”
“Good.”
Suddenly uncomfortable with him in her living room, she went to the kitchen. From the moment they’d met, she’d been attracted to him. And he’d said the same about her the other night. But she was entangled. And he was ... unpredictable. “I’m getting hungry. Should I reheat some food? Do you want something to eat? Or do you need to get going? Have I totally screwed up your schedule?”
He laughed. “Slow down.”
“Sorry. Software glitch.” Joe had coined that phrase for her propensity for shooting out a string of questions or comments without giving him a chance to respond. Her heart stung. How long would she think of everything in reference to Joe?
Enrique padded over in his bare feet. “Do you mind if I cook something else? I’m so happy to have access to a kitchen.”
Skylar realized she was staring and shifted her gaze. He’d asked her a question. Oh, yes, he wanted to cook. “I’ll help you this time.”
He opened the fridge. “Cilantro. Love it or hate it?”
“Love it.”
“Good, because it makes this dish.” One at a time, he passed her fresh cilantro, a bulb of garlic, several tomatoes, a package of chicken and a container of chicken broth, which she placed on the counter. “Okay, we need ...” He reached in a cabinet and pulled out olive oil, cumin, salt and pepper. “Where’s the rice?”
She got it from the pantry.
“And we need one onion and the pico de gallo.”
“What are we making?”
“Arroz con pollo y frijoles.” It rolled off his tongue like a sonnet. “Rice with chicken and beans.”
Skylar risked a glance. Something had come to life in his eyes. Passion. For food, she reminded herself. He’d been living without a kitchen for six months. When Enrique spoke Spanish, something shifted. Skylar wasn’t sure if it was in her or in him, or maybe the air? But it drew her in, making her want something she wasn’t sure how to name. He seemed so ... grounded. Like he knew who he was and didn’t question it. It had been a long time since she’d felt that way. Perhaps he’d rub off on her.
“Is Spanish your first language?”
He paused and gazed at her. “Si.” Forget the stovetop, he could sear the food with a look. “But my parents are fluent in English as well. They thought it was important to know both.”
Skylar felt like a teenager, fighting that fluttery feeling inside. If she weren’t so moon-eyed, she might believe he was moved by her question. After a moment, he went to the sink and washed his hands, prompting her to do the same. Their elbows brushed lightly, sending a quiver of warmth into the far reaches of her body. Once more, guilt quickly vaporized the feeling. “So, how can I help?”
Enrique dug out a cutting board. “Pass me that knife on the top right.”
Skylar pulled it from the block, enjoying that he was comfortable enough to commandeer her kitchen and tell her what to do. She didn’t sense a power trip, just an easy confidence. A man comfortable in his own skin.
He cut off both ends of an onion and sliced it in quarters, disposing of the dry outer layers. “Start with the tip of your knife on the board and bring this end down.” Enrique demonstrated, quickly slicing one section of the onion. “You do the rest. Make it all the same size.”
Skylar had seen chefs on TV do this sort of thing and was surprised at how much more efficient it was.
Enrique came alongside and turned the tips of her fingers under. “It’s safer if you keep your fingertips rounded.”
His closeness turned her legs to rubber. “So, in addition to being a medic and a motorcycle mechanic, you’re also a chef?” She kept her eyes on what she was doing.
“Self taught.” He propped a hip against the counter and she felt his gaze. “And my mom’s a great cook. She taught me a lot.”
“A renaissance man. What size pan do we need for the rice?” She opened a cabinet, putting a little distance between them.
“Medium.” Enrique faced her. The fire in his eyes made her wonder if he was feeling the same way she was.
She swallowed, suddenly fearful she’d act on her feelings. Then he might go cold again. But even if he didn’t, the guilt that plagued her would eat her alive. “I think this will work.” She set a pan on the counter and backed between him and the refrigerator, thumbing over her shoulder. “I need to get a tablecloth.”
He gave a half-smile, those dark eyes regarding her under thick, long lashes. A few more seconds and he’d have to mop her up off the floor. The kitchen was too small for the energy that arced between them. The tablecloths were in the pantry, three feet from where he stood. But Skylar escaped down the hall and hid in her closet. She pulled out the picture she’d hidden and held it to her breast. This was no good being stuck between worlds. She shoved it back on the shelf and put a T-shirt on top of it.
When she returned, Enrique was stirring something on the stove. “I forgot ... they’re in here.” Her voice was unsteady and she wanted to kick herself. She pulled the pantry door open and grabbed the first tablecloth she saw. “I haven’t used them since I moved in.” Finally, the truth. The task of setting the table allowed her stomach to settle.
She couldn’t go back in there and help him. If she loosened one brick in the wall she’d erected, the whole thing might come crashing down. “Do you mind if I take a break?” Skylar moved to the sofa, the farthest point from Enrique without leaving the room again, which would be rude.
“No. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.” Enrique eyed her, concern etching his features.
“I’m okay. Just tired.” With a sigh, she pulled the blanket up to her neck. Perhaps if she took her focus off herself ... “Andy said you inherited the shop from your uncle.”
“Yeah. He passed away early this year.”
“I’m sorry. Were the two of you close?”
He nodded. While he finished cooking, he told her about the financial challenges it presented. Then he invited her to the small dining area off the kitchen. “I’d have closed it and sold the building, but my family is counting on me to give them some work.”
“How big is your family?” Skylar got up and filled two glasses with water, adding ice to his.
“Big. Like a town. Cousins are the same as siblings in my family. I stopped trying to count them when I was about ten.”
“Where are you from?”
“Federal Heights. You?”
“Denver.”
“All your life?”
“Mmm hmm. Except, I lived in California during college. I went to Cal-Poly. San Luis Obispo is beautiful.” Memories flooded in, making her throat ache. She was saved by wonderful food and light conversation.
After cleaning the kitchen together, Skylar said, “Enrique, thank you for doing all of this. I’m sure you’re exhausted. I should let you go so you can get some sleep.” The thought of him sleeping on that cot in the windowless room made her sad. Even though he did it for the sake of his family.
Enrique turned to her, a serious look on his face. “Do you want me to sleep on the sofa tonight? I came prepared.” His fingertips skimmed her shoulder.
Yes. Knowing he was there might be enough. But she’d been a huge burden all week. And now that she understood more about his life, she didn’t feel right adding herself to his list of responsibilities. “No, thanks.”
“Then I should call your dad. I told him I wouldn’t leave you alone.”
“What exactly did he tell you?” Her heart rate spiked.
“That you’ve been through hell and it wouldn’t be good for you to be alone after what happened today.”
“That’s all?” The tremor in her voice was humiliating.
He nodded. Skylar eyed him. Saw no signs of deception.
He pulled on his boots and she walked him to the door. She touched his arm. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there today. I could have been killed. And Mia ... she might still be ...” A lump formed in her throat. The events of the day flashed again, more intense than before. A surge of emotion barreled over her. Skylar swallowed. Closed her eyes.
Enrique pulled her to him, rubbing her back. “I’m going to stay. You have a lot to deal with on top of whatever else has been going on.”
Skylar’s shoulders quaked as, once again, painful sobs wrenched from her throat. Her whole body trembled. He guided her to the sofa. “I’m sorry,” she said. Like a child, she buried her face in a pillow, completely embarrassed by her inability to remain in control.