The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,89

She rubbed a thumbnail over the surface of the counter. “I just liked it when we all ate breakfast together, like a TV family.”

“I liked it, too. I grew up like that.” He thought for a minute. “Leave it to me, kiddo. I’ll figure out a way to get the food in here. You’re in charge of figuring out what you want for the table and all that stuff. Deal?”

Her smile was as young and pleased as anything he’d ever seen. “Really?”

“Really.” Picking up his cup, he said, “Let’s go see what we can find to watch together.”

After work, Elena showered the grease and grit of the day from her skin and then padded downstairs for a glass of wine. The candles burned on her altar, and she smiled at the offerings, then spied a sock in front of the couch and bent to scoop it up.

A flash of Julian—over her, touching her, kissing her, driving into her—gave her a sultry shiver, and she straightened, letting the full memory wash back into her mind. His seasoned tongue and thick member and skilled fingers, his surprising earthiness and unselfconsciousness—

Across the room, in soft outline, stood Isobel. She simply gazed at Elena, face impassive. “What?” Elena asked.

“Tell him that his mother is here, too,” she said.

“It’s a little weird, you know.” She tossed the sock on top of the washer as she passed the closet where it was stored, and went to the kitchen for that wine. “And it’s weird that you’re showing up when he’s in the room. What’s that about?”

But Isobel never answered questions like that, and she didn’t now. She fell on her elbows on the counter, watching as Elena poured white wine into a goblet. “Something’s going on,” Isobel said. “There’s some kind of trouble, but I’m not sure what it is.”

“I talked to Hector’s sister.” The wine was cool and sharp and refreshing. “She said there is an accident coming.”

Isobel nodded, peering into the distance. Around her wrists were seven thin bracelets and a big chunk of turquoise. Her eyes, that almost golden brown, shimmered. “Juan. It’s about Juan.”

Narrowing her eyes, Elena remembered the strangeness about Hector going to the emergency room. Which made her think of Juan and Ivan standing in the kitchen, exchanging that look, and then everything had been all right when Hector returned, stitched but off dish duty. She put him to work in the front of the house for the time being.

She’d forgotten to ask Ivan what was going on because she’d been awash in postcoital blurriness, flashing back to hands and mouth and eyes and—

Shit.

What had she done?

The same thing she always did. Let the wrong man get close, let the wrong guy under her skin. And this man was not just one who had power in her life, he was famous and charming, and sexy and—

She realized that Isobel had gone. The kitchen seemed painfully empty, and she sank down on a stool, shaking her head. She wanted to call Mia, talk it out, but even if it wasn’t the middle of the night in England, Elena wasn’t talking to her friend yet. Maybe Patrick?

No. Patrick had his own relationship stuff going on. He wasn’t likely to be particularly reasonable. Or available, honestly.

Her grandmother? No. Maria Elena always just wanted Elena to settle down, get married, stop this foolish chasing-around-the-world stuff. Her relationships with her remaining sisters were too tenuous. There was no one else in her world, no confidante. No best friend to whisper with, or analyze things or solicit advice from. Even her dog wasn’t home yet.

Pathetic. How did that happen?

Across the room, the candles on the El Día de Los Muertos altar flickered. “Yeah, I get it,” she said to the invisible ghosts. “I have you. Not the same.”

In the end, she carried her wine upstairs and flipped on her laptop. If she were speaking to Mia, she would write her an email. So she would just do that without actually sending it.

Dear Mia,

I’m in a mess again. I had sex with my boss this afternoon, and it was not as light as I expected it would be. It feels like there’s weight and substance to it, which makes it even more dangerous. I like him. That’s the real trouble. He’s the kind of guy you know is going to be too much trouble in real life—too rich, too accomplished, with access to too many really gorgeous women—but I like him more than I want to. He’s