This is crazy. I’ve never gotten turned on by something so common before.
But that’s no common tongue. It’s an extraordinary one, one that can give pointers to all other tongues.
Well… Yeah… I squirm in my seat to relieve the uncomfortable ache between my legs. Then I freeze. He did it again! His tongue just darted out right after he took another sip of the Merlot.
Is he doing it on purpose?
I stare at him hard enough to put a hole in his gorgeous face. But he’s too relaxed and proper to be trying to turn me on. Besides, he wouldn’t do that in front of my dad and brothers, not to mention all the other male relatives, not unless he took out a huge life insurance policy and has a death wish now.
“How do you like it?” Tío Manny asks eagerly. An unholy glimmer in his eyes betrays his excitement. He has a speech of disapproval ready to go, no matter what Edgar says.
“Yeah, why don’t you tell us what you think?” Rinaldo adds lazily.
Et tu, Rinaldo? He’s never joined in with Tío Manny like this before.
Edgar swirls his glass again. “Surprisingly full-bodied and mellow. Has a nice oak finish.” He considers for a moment. “Also a hint of black currant, which is a pleasingly delicate note. Does that satisfy your curiosity?” His smile is polite.
Huh. That’s pretty…thorough. My exes always said, “It’s good,” or some such with a vapid, ingratiating grin. To be honest, they would’ve had nothing but praise even if my uncle had poured them a glass of vinegar.
“But do you like it?” Tío Manny demands.
“Yes. It’s delicious. What vineyard is it from?” Edgar asks.
“Sombrero Valley,” Hugo answers. “The best place for wine.”
“My other uncle owns it,” I add, wanting to end this wine inquisition…and also because I want to see what Edgar says next. My exes were usually effusively complimentary—too complimentary—about the wine. “He sends us some bottles every year.”
“I’ll have to get in touch. Get some for my brothers,” Edgar says, then takes another sip. Unlike some of my exes, it’s obvious Edgar means it.
Tío Manny grins suddenly. “You’ve got good taste.”
Of course. He thinks his brother’s wine can cure cancer.
“Are you okay?” Mom peers at me. “You keep fidgeting.”
Oh, great. Is it that noticeable that I’m squirming to relieve the pressure between my legs? Now I feel a smidgeon of sympathy for men.
Tía Bea says, “It’s the lower back. When you’re pregnant, it always hurts.” She gives me a significant look. “High heels don’t help, either, sweetie.”
Dios mío, how could she draw such a ludicrous conclusion? I don’t even have a visible bump. As a matter of fact, the baby might still be in its egg form with a sperm wriggling inside. On the other hand, I can’t tell them the real reason.
“Is there a cushion to support her back?” Edgar asks, the picture of solicitousness.
None of your exes were this considerate. He’s as good as it’s going to get.
Probably so. But I don’t want to acknowledge it. Not while Aaron’s “Plan B” is still hanging over my head.
“Good idea. Hugo, go get one from my office,” Tía Bea says.
Hugo leaves the room and Papa turns to Edgar, his gaze extra probing and vaguely judgmental. “You know an awful lot about making a pregnant woman comfortable.”
Oh my God. Does Papa think Edgar has been impregnating women left and right all over the country? Even if he does, he could be a bit more subtle.
“My sister-in-law is expecting,” Edgar replies easily. “I’ve seen how my brother takes care of her.”
The dark aura of judgment around Papa subsides, and I relax in my seat.
Hugo returns with a cushion, which I dutifully place behind my back. There isn’t really any alternative, even though it doesn’t do a thing for me, of course.
“Better?” Edgar asks.
I fake a smile. “Yes. Thank you.”
Mama nods approvingly, exchanging knowing glances with my aunt, and I know what they’re doing: writing a fantasy wedding novel starring me and Edgar. Although I told Aaron I’m the one planning a fancy ceremony, Mama is into it too.
Mercifully, dinner continues without any more awkward questions or embarrassing probing or observations. I focus on the food, even though it’s hard. Edgar’s tugging at my attention like a puppy wanting to play.
By the time all the dessert plates have been scraped clean and the conversations have died their natural deaths, it’s after nine. I’m tired from the excitement of the day—of finally confirming my suspicion that I’m pregnant, negotiating