Chapter NineteenMateoFrom keeping my hands to myself to second-guessing my plans for the night, the drive to the destination I selected for our date is nothing short of torture.
Especially the keeping my hands to myself part.
When that door swung open, my jaw nearly hit the floor. The way her little romper-thing accentuated every curve had me vividly and eagerly imagining peeling it off.
“You’re really not going to tell me?” she asks as I pull into the parking lot of our destination. “Wait—did you—is this where we’re having our date?”
My worry over this being a mistake intensifies, but I press on.
“Trust me,” is all I say as I park my car and kill the engine.
Out of my peripheral, I see her nod, and that’s all the encouragement I need. “Hang tight.” I exit the vehicle and sprint around to her side to help her out.
I slide the key into the main door of my garage and let us in. As soon as she sees my setup, she gasps. “You did all of this? For me?” The tinge of wonder in her voice nearly does me in.
“Do you like it?” I ask, trying to see the space through her eyes. Are the string of lights wrapped around the car lifts too much? Is a picnic on a garage floor cheesy? Did I completely fuck this up?
“I love it,” she whispers, her eyes glistening as she pops up onto her tiptoes and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. “It’s amazing.” She kisses my lips. “You’re amazing.” Her tongue darts out and licks my lips.
I oblige, letting her deepen the kiss, but only for a moment. “Slow down, mariposita. We have all night.”
A pretty blush colors her cheeks as I lead her to the pallet of blankets I arranged on the floor. In one corner, I have a wicker basket filled to the brim with various treats as well as a cooler of water.
In another corner, I have an extra blanket and a few pillows.
But it’s the back corner that holds—what I think is—the best part of all.
I guide her to a seated position in the center of the pallet. “Let me feed you.” I pile a little of everything onto her plate before making one for myself. Chicken salad, toast points, an assortment of cheeses, and some fresh fruit.
The conversation flows freely as we eat; we talk about everything and nothing, and here, in my dim garage, I feel closer to this stunning woman than ever before.
Seraphine and I… we connect in a way I never thought possible; especially after losing Imani.
Yet here and now, I see every barrier that kept us apart for what it truly was—an excuse. A way to guard my heart from what it wanted… from what it needed.
“Did you save room for dessert?” I ask as she pops her last grape into her mouth.
She pats her belly. “Dessert? I’m stuffed.”
“Try a bite? Just one?” I clasp my hands under my chin in the prayer position and widen my eyes. As I knew she would, Seraphine laughs and agrees. “You won’t regret it,” I assure her as I retrieve the slice of chocoflan I brought for us to share.
“What is that?” she asks as I fork off a bite for her and bring it to her lips.
“Pastel imposible—impossible cake.”
She parts her lips and I slide the tines of the fork into her mouth. She moans softly at the taste. “Oh my God. That’s amazing.”
“It’s my dad’s mom’s recipe.”
“Where, um, is your dad?” Seraphine asks, her eyes on her lap.
“He passed away many years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Mateo.”
I shake my head. “He lived a long life, a full life. He is at peace.”
“You’re so… wise.”
“It comes with age.” I wink and she giggles; the sound of it sweeter than the chocoflan.
“This night has been perfect,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder.
“We’re not done yet.” I stand and pull her up with me. She gives me a funny look as I scoop up the bag from the back corner and pass it to her. “Put this on.”
She pulls the coveralls from the bag and looks at me like I’ve lost it.
“You can change in the bath—”
“Turn around.”
I swallow roughly and do as she says. The thought of her stripping down and changing less than two feet away has my heart pounding in my chest. The urge to turn, to sneak a peek, is strong. But I respect her and know when I see her body, it will be because she wants me to.
“Okay.”
I whirl around to her and groan at the sight of her. There’s nothing special about the coveralls I gave her; it’s your standard run-of-the-mill coverall. Yet on her, it’s pretty much porno-worthy.
She laughs like I’m joking. The tightness in the crotch of my jeans proves otherwise. But she’s not ready for that—we’re not ready for that.