94 Hold the mustard

94 Hold the mustard
Date = 12 August
I’m done hiding and sulking.
Place = San Francisco (Black Pit)
Our new home.

POV - Enrique

We lay tangled in the soft cotton sheets of the bed in our new ‘home’, still sticky from the kind of slow sex that makes your chest feel cracked open and full at the same time. Drifting in that lull right after climax when everything feels both weightless and impossibly heavy.

Her head is tucked into the crook of my shoulder, one leg hooked lazily over my hip as if she owns me. Because she does. Her breath ghosts over my ribs, slow and steady, and my heart’s trying to keep time with it.

I should say something. Anything.

But I don’t.

Because I know what she’s going to say before she even says it.

“I know it’s not ideal,” she whispers, her fingers absently playing with the edge of the sheet that drapes over my rather enthusiastic manhood. “But maybe we should postpone the wedding a little?”

Her voice is soft. Hesitant.

And it cuts.

I don’t answer. My fingers keep tracing the inside of her arm like it can distract me from the words. From the headache blooming right behind my eyes. Kiara’s name lingers in the room, unspoken but heavy as hell. She’s everywhere these days. In the corners of our laughter. In the silence. In the parts of me I haven’t admitted are broken yet.

I breathe in through my nose, slow and deep, pressing it into her hair, trying to inhale her. Peaches and sweat. Me and her. Everything we are right now.

Aria keeps playing with the sheet that’s covering me. Or rather, covering the keen resurgence of my appreciation for her post-orgasmic glow. I should probably be embarrassed by how fast my body (and my dick) reacts to her, but screw it — it’s voodoo.

She doesn’t look at me. She just keeps fiddling with the sheet like it might hide her thoughts.

The silence stretches until it becomes a hum behind my eyes, and then she glances up through lashes, eyes still heavy from release.

And just like that, I’m willing to do anything she wants.

My jaw tightens. My thoughts are somewhere far away. And despite the intimacy of our position — her entire naked body wrapped around me — I feel distant. Caged.

My heart dips.

“I just think…” she begins again, softer, unsure, “… with Kiara gone …”

I still can’t speak. But my brow tugs, and she knows she’s hit the bruise.

Kiara. Our beautiful, reckless, wildly inappropriate Kiara. Taken from us in a blur of screeching tires and shattered glass just days ago. The world hasn’t righted itself since. Grief sticks to everything — every room, every laugh, every toast made in her memory. It stains joy. And weddings are supposed to be joyful, right?

But then she says, “We can’t …”

And I panic.

So, I reach for the dumbest possible excuse my brain can come up with — “Everything’s already paid for …”

God. That’s weak.

She doesn’t call me out, not exactly, but her silence does the job. Her eyes flick to mine.

“Do you lose a lot of money then?” she asks gently.

Yes. No. I have no idea. I don’t care. I have loads of money.

“I don’t care about that,” I say. “I just —”

“— want to get married on your mom’s birthday,” she says quietly, finishing the sentence for me.

And that’s it.

The lump in my throat gets real … fast. My eyes sting, and I blink too much, hoping she doesn’t notice.

Because yeah. That’s it. That’s the heart of it. It’s my mother’s birthday. It’s the one thing I’ve clung to since I was a kid — the idea that one day, something good would happen on that day again. That maybe she’d look down and finally forgive me for all the ways I disappointed her before she died. Maybe she’ll forgive me for my cruel words. For not being there to save her. For being the one to crack Darren enough for him to make that dreadful call.

Stupid idea, maybe. But what else do I have? It’s not as if I can resurrect her to ask forgiveness.

My throat works as I swallow. “Yes,” I manage to croak.

Aria shifts closer, and her hand glides across my chest, anchoring me. She presses a kiss to my collarbone, right over the blown-up-toilet scar she seems to cherish.

“You know that it’s not HER forgiveness that you need?” she whispers. My breath catches. My lashes flutter.

And damn her. Damn her and those sex-drunk eyes that see straight into my marrow. I manage not to cry, but my jaw clenches so hard my teeth grind.

“You need to forgive yourself. It wasn’t your fault. It was your grandfather’s. And Darren’s. Also, Lucinda’s. It started with her lies.”

I close my eyes. Because she’s right. Of course, she’s right.

I should feel lighter. But I don’t. Because I’m used to feeling like the grenade in the room.

We lie like that for a long while, until the heaviness in the room starts to crack open, and I finally trust my voice again.

“I just … I need to feel like I’m allowed to have something good. And I want to make her birthday a day of celebration for my family again. We need that.” She presses a kiss to my jaw.

“We can always wait a year if needs be.”

“No,” I say. I didn’t even think about it; the answer comes from the gut.

She smiles. “I can wait an eternity for you.”

“I don’t want to wait that long.” My voice drops to a growl — because that’s what she does to me. I push down the sheet to hide my returning erection, which is now straight-up disrespectful. “I want you now. In law.”

She giggles, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Oh, so you just want me to sign the papers … nasty … but this time I’ll make sure to read the fine print first.”

I grin. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve been drafting a prenup where you swear your undying allegiance and full body access until death do us part.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t already rewritten it to include full pantry privileges and joint sock drawer access.”

“Oh, you can have all the privileges and access you want,” I whisper dramatically, flipping us until she’s under me.

“Well, then we get married as planned,” she says, all soft and firm at the same time. “Maybe a little celebration will help everyone forget about the bad things. I think we all need and deserve some happiness.”

I wiggle myself into a better position. I just stare at her for a while. Wondering how I ended up with someone like this. Then my dick twitches. She laughs and presses a palm against my chest.

“As hot as it is when you get all poetic and clingy, I really need to talk to you about something.”

I groan and collapse back beside her, hands over my face. “Fine. Talk. But I’m keeping my erection as a passive protest.”

She snorts. “I’m sad that my dad won’t walk me down the aisle.”

The laughter dies in the room. I turn to face her fully. “Aria …”

“I know he wasn’t perfect. But he was not a bad father. He was actually pretty great. And I would have loved for him to be there. Wearing a tie. Walking me down the aisle. Maybe even cry a little. Or at least pretend not to.”

I don’t speak. Just takes her hand and holds it, my thumb rubbing the inside of her wrist in slow, soothing sweeps.

“I’m thinking of asking Noah,” she says. “If he’d walk me.”

I brighten. “That would be perfect.”

“I bought him a truck.”

I blink. “What?” I stare at her like she’s grown antlers.

“A truck. I bought him a Ford. Burgundy. Lifted. With obnoxious tires. It was all my own money. My new job pays very, very well.” I know. I’ve forced Dean to buy the company, then triple everyone’s salary, so she doesn’t get suspicious. I want to help her become successful by giving her a little push start. But she can never know.

“And since I don’t need to pay for the Mini anymore …” Yeah … I came clean about that at least. I bought her the car … made Logan pretend it was his … long story. But now she knows the truth, and I gave it to her as a present.

“Wait — when?”

“Last week. Alejandro helped me. It’s a surprise.” She grins proudly. And I’m so proud of her.

“He’s been incredible, Enrique. He works hard between his studies … and still he’s always there for me … for Leyla. His whole life, he’s been my rock and —” she breaks off. “I wanted to do something that shows him I see that.”

I don’t speak for a second. Then I say, “You’re gonna make me cry again, and frankly, my ego can’t handle another cry session this week. I’ve cried enough to rehydrate a cactus.”

“Your ego needs a vacation. Preferably a silent one,” she rasps.

“You bought your brother a truck,” I repeat in awe. “A whole truck.”

“Yes.” Her voice is smug. “What have you done for your siblings lately?”

“Oh, Jackson got a whole damn sandwich,” I say proudly. “And I even remembered no mustard. That’s growth.”

Aria rolls her eyes and elbows me lightly.

“I’m proud of you,” I add more softly. “For asking Noah. For being strong.”

“I’m not strong,” she murmurs. And she’s wrong.

“You are. You just don’t know it. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.” I pause. “Except maybe for those Moore sisters, but they have the emotional range of a cinder block, so you win.”

We laugh. It feels good. Raw and real and necessary.

After a moment, I shift, propping myself on one elbow.

“Do you think it’s selfish to still want the wedding now?” I ask, voice low. “Even with everything going on?”

She shakes her head. “I think people need something beautiful to look forward to. Something warm. Something hopeful.”

“Like sex.”

“Like a wedding,” she says pointedly.

“Same thing. More expensive.”

She snorts. “I think I’m going to call Noah.” I get up and stretch out my full naked body … erection still intact.

The bedroom is still heavy with the scent of sex and peaches, but my stomach has other priorities.

“Where are you going?” Aria murmurs, voice husky and lazy as she extends to reach her phone, the sheet slipping off one bare shoulder. It should be a crime to look that good after wrecking a man.

I lean down and kiss her softly. “I think I’m going to get a snack,” I grunt, grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around my waist like some half-assed Roman emperor.

She smirks. “Real romantic.”

“I’m a simple man with primitive priorities,” I say. “Sex, food, sex, sleep. Repeat.”

She grins. “You do realize this is our last day of naked freedom before marriage?”

“Exactly. Hence the sandwich. I’m carb-loading for endurance.”

She rolls her eyes again, already scrolling through her phone as I head for the door. I pause and glance back at her. “You gonna be okay?”

She nods.

My heart gives a gentle thump, knowing this is not easy for her. I nod once and head out, giving her space for the call. She deserves a moment with her brother — to ask him to walk her into forever.

I open the cupboards and start taking out food, and plates, and stuff.

I’m halfway through making a turkey and mustard sandwich — with mustard this time, because I’m brave like that — when I feel it.

A presence.

No … multiple presences.

I turn slowly, bread still in one hand, and glance toward the sliding front door.

Three tiny bodies and a dog.

All pressed to the glass like some kind of horror movie, except instead of machetes and soulless eyes, I get mud, glitter, and one terrifyingly smug puppy.

“What the actual —” I mutter.

They wave enthusiastically. The puppy barks.

I sigh.

So much for a peaceful between-coital snack.

I shuffle to the door, still wrapped in nothing but a blanket and the hope that nobody else is watching. I open it just enough to peer out.

All three of them beam up at me, the girls wearing shirts decorated with glitter.

River’s has skulls and says Concrete Angel in sparkly letters. Lili’s has unicorns and the word Sparks.

Behind them, Luke’s new oversized puppy is wagging his snow white body like a caffeinated polar bear, tongue lolling out, blue eyes shining. An Alaskan Malamute named Gojo. The dog is courtesy of a brother who works at a puppy pound. And the name, courtesy of a jade-eyed friend who is into manga.

And of course now they all want one … a puppy … not a brother. Even Leyla.

“We’re here for sandwiches,” River announces cheerfully.

I stare. “What part of your brain thought now was a good time to break into my house?”

“You left the blinds open,” Luke says with a shrug, petting the pup’s head. “That’s basically an invitation.”

“You’re wearing a blanket,” River adds with suspicious eyebrows. “Were you napping or —” she pauses dramatically, “ — doing sex?” I don’t think I’ve ever DONE sex. But I’m leaving that there.

I squint at her. “I will not be answering that.”

“We are bored,” Lili chimes in, twirling in place. “Looking for that pit. And now we’re hungry.”

“And Marco’s food tastes like earwax and boogies,” River says, like it’s a battle cry. “And Auntie Rosa threw us out for starting another small kitchen fire. And Lili’s Nanna is napping.”

Lili’s Nanna is George Garcia’s widow, Alice. She’s helping Uncle Ash, her grandson, to raise Lili. No one knows where Lili’s mother is. Nope, let me correct that statement … I don’t know where her mother is. I’m sure Jackson has an idea.

“And it’s still hours before dinner,” Luke throws in his weight.

I stare at them a second longer. Then at the puppy. Then at myself, still half-dressed like a deranged cult leader, holding mustardy turkey on bread.

“Fine. Come in. Shoes off. No loud noises. No questions.”

They barge in like it’s a hotel lobby. The puppy trots in, too, immediately trying to climb into the fridge. I think Alejandro needs to work on him some more. A lot more.

Luke and River swarm the counter like starved gremlins. River doesn’t even wait before poking the bread with a grubby finger, suspicious as though it might bite her first.

“Make us sandwiches too, please,” she demands, her tone way too imperial for someone barely tall enough to see over the counter. Then she tilts her head, lashes fluttering in fake sweetness. “Pretty pretty please.”

“I want the whole works, please,” Lili orders, already leaning her elbows on the counter like a miniature queen awaiting tribute.

“Make it two,” Luke says. “Extra cheese, please.” At least they have some manners.

“Hold the mustard,” River chirps.

I roll my eyes so hard I swear I have a glimpse of my brain. “You’re ten. You can make your own sandwich.”

“I just turned nine,” River corrects instantly, proud of her exact age like it’s a badge of power. “And we’re guests.”

“Hospitality, please,” Lili moans, lower lip pushed out in a pout that would make saints weak.

Luke mutters under his breath, “And I don’t trust that girl with a knife.” He points at River, his voice is so dry it could slice the bread for me. But he makes a very good point.

I groan, slap more bread on the counter, and reach for the butter knife, already regretting every decision that’s led me to this moment.

River’s eyes narrow as I work. Too curious. Too sharp. “So …” she begins, dragging the word out like she’s cracking open a secret box. “Is this your before-honeymoon honeymoon?”

“Like a practice-honeymoon?” Lili adds.

My hand stalls mid-spread. “What does that even mean?”

River leans on the counter, smug. “It means Aria said you guys weren’t allowed to officially honeymoon until after the wedding. But you’re looking extra sweaty.”

“Like you’ve been practicing,” Lili follows through.

“Maybe I’ve been jogging.”

“Ha!” Luke barks. “Yeah, from the bed to the kitchen.”

“Did you remember to buy your special vegan balloons so you don’t swell up?” Lili asks.

“I don’t need balloons anymore.” It’s out before I realize.

River tilts her head, innocence dripping off her like sugar water. “Don’t worry. We won’t tell Jackson.” She pauses just long enough to twist the knife. “Probably.”

The air freezes. My stomach dips. “Why would Jackson care?”

River lowers her voice, conspiratorial, like she’s about to share state secrets. “He gets twitchy when people forget about balloons. Or slip their bicycle gears.” Her little chin lifts, grave, dead serious. “I heard from a source that he almost killed Mel’s boyfriend for that same reason.”

My soul dies a little. I bet that source must be Sky. Luke snorts.

“You mean my brother,” he gruffs.

River nods gravely. “It’s a sensitive subject.”

I turn with the butter knife raised like a weapon. “You three go find something to do. Movie. Book. Start a cult. Makeup your guards. I don’t care. But do not come back in here before dinner. Preferably ever.”

“That’s like three hours,” Luke repeats. His grin spreads sharp as a blade. “So you ARE having sex again.”

“Go.”

“Fine. But can we have puppies too?” River asks hopefully.

“Yeah,” Lili echoes. “Everyone else gets one.”

“Take it up with Alejandro,” I mutter. “Or Jackson, or the Pope …

“Or my mother,” Luke offers. Not sure which of those holds the biggest authority on that subject, but yeah. As long as they leave me alone.

“Literally anyone else but me,” I snap, shoving the sandwiches into their greedy little hands. “I’m the hot one. Not the puppy provider.”

“You’re wrong … Jackson is way hotter than you,” River sneers, and Lili shakes her head in agreement.

“We’re identical,” I snap, closing the door.

They scurry away with the food, puppy in tow, chattering about which breed of dog they want. I shake my head and watch their chaos disappear down the path. Their guards follow them like three shadows.

I peach them. Really, I do.

But I make sure to close the blinds. And the curtains. And lock the door.

And the back door. And check the window latch twice.

Check under the table because you never know with this family.

I grab my own sandwich from the counter, and then my phone buzzes.

Jackson: I’m making sandwiches for all. Bring your own mustard.