Come What May - L.K. Farlow Page 0,14

I guess I do. Wanted to be close to family.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this, but my gums keep flapping. “Especially when Imani got sick. It just seemed… easier, you know? To have help close by. Mi mamá and my sister, Silvia, live a block away, and Arrón is the house behind mine.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay.” She sounds about as confused as I am over the unwarranted info-dump.

“Tell me,” I say, changing the subject, “what’s going on with your dad’s shop?”

In my periphery, I notice she balls her hands into tight fists in her lap. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, surely he had appointments and customers when he passed. What is going to happen to his shop?”

“Why do you care?” There’s that petulance again, shining through to remind me of her age.

“I care because he was a good man who had damn near perfected his craft, and I know his customers are curious as well.”

She huffs. “I don’t know, okay? His lawyers and even a few customers keep calling the house, but I don’t know what to tell them.”

“Ignoring a problem won’t make it go away, Seraphine.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

I flip on the blinker to turn onto her street. “I think you’re under a lot of stress and dealing with what feels like insurmountable grief. It’s okay to need a little help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“You do.”

I pull into her driveway, taking note of how rundown the place looks. The once-pristine ranch-style home now shows its age. The yard is overgrown—practically a jungle—and the exterior is in need of a good pressure washing, probably even some paint. Judging from the state of the house, Dave was too unwell to care for it for a while.

I gesture to the scene before us. “Clearly you do.”

Seraphine sniffs, and she unbuckles. “I’ve been busy.”

She reaches for the door handle but I stop her. “Busy with what?”

“I don’t really see how it’s any of your business.”

Disappointment has me shaking my head—though I’m not sure who I’m more disappointed in: me for basically shaming her for how she’s dealing with the loss of her father or her for burying her head in the sand.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She gets out of the car, but I holler after her before she has a chance to swing the car door shut. “Just know—it doesn’t make you weak.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Asking for help.”

Chapter Six

Mateo

It’s been two weeks since my fairground rescue, and as loathe as I am to admit it, I haven’t stopped thinking about Seraphine since. Damn bewitching woman has me under her spell.

So much so that I’m not even a little bit ashamed of my plans to fish for info from Simon when he stops by the shop this afternoon.

Until then, there’s a lift kit with my name on it.

Countless hours later, my stomach rumbles, and I break to find food.

“Brother!” Arrón hollers from halfway across the garage as I head to the sink to scrub my hands. “You about done?”

“Not quite.”

“It’s been six hours.”

I glance up toward the giant clock on the wall in disbelief. I worked straight through lunch, and Simon will be here shortly.

“Chinga tu madre!” I rack my brain trying to catalog the contents of the fridge in the office. I didn’t bring a lunch and don’t have time to go anywhere.

“¿Qué pasa? What’s wrong, brother?”

My stomach grumbles, answering Arrón for me.

“You’re in luck.” He grins.

I quirk a brow, gesturing for him to explain.

“I ran by Jefecita’s and she made enchiladas de mole.”

“And you saved me some?” I’m already salivating, just imagining the taste. Nobody—and I mean that—is a better cook than my mother.

He pinches his thumb and forefinger together. “Un poquito.”

I crack a smile. “Better than none.”

“I’m a real fucking saint.” Arrón smirks, miming a halo over his head.

“Yeah.” I turn and walk past him. “Saint Dipshit.”

“Talk all the shit you want, Mate, but I could have eaten it all.”

“Too true,” I concede, holding the door to the office open for him.

The second I step foot into the room, the familiar scents of Mamá’s kitchen greets me, causing my mouth to water.

“Is there rice?”

“Does a cow have spots?”

“Hell yes.”

At the small corner table, I tear into the container Arrón brought, readily forking a mouthful of spicy-sweet goodness into my mouth. I groan in delight as I clean my plate. “Fuck, that is good.”

“You kiss your mama with that mouth, Mateo?”

I turn toward the new voice, smiling ear to ear. “Simon—funny man.”

“I’d like to think so,” he says, pulling up a