Heavy Love(19)

"I'm not a psychiatrist, Franco."

"I know, I'm just," my shoulders rise slowly. It was the weakest attempt  at a joke since Angelique told me about her very first botched session  as a therapist. Her anger has me off my game. Last night each melody of  laughter coming from her mouth was an incentive to make her smile and  chuckle harder. I kinda got use to the damn sound of it all. "Look, I  brought dinner. The best tequila. Juice."

"Nope. No dinner. No alcohol, either. All though, I've noticed tequila  is your crutch." She begins to retreat then pauses. "What kind of  juice?"

I pull out the organic orange juice as she teeter-totters on her bare feet. "My favorite."

She doesn't even look me in the eye, but I'm aware what she's come to  realize. I listened to each word Angelique said last night. And last  night, she told me an embarrassing story revolving around orange juice  and her first day at high school. Shit, she was always real.

Angelique takes the bottle from me then steps back into the room. Before  she can shut the door, I'm standing in front of her. I almost laugh,  her stubbornness is so cute no less. But I guess laughing is better than  hating on myself for getting on her bad side.

"We need to talk, Angelique." I breathe in a fruity fragrance.

Her mouth sets in this peculiar way, stubborn and tense has never been so adorable. "Not really, we don't need to talk."

"I came to apologize."

"Accepted. And I do appreciate the juice," She retorts, hand on hip. Angelique is still blocking the doorway.

"You're welcome, now, please, let me in so we can talk."

"First of all, if anybody needs to do some talking it's you. I blabbered like a fool last night."

"Yes, I was a fucking ass last night for using a false name, Angelique.  But trust me, if you think I didn't open up …  I honestly opened up to you  more than I've ever done with anyone else."

She smirks.

"I'm a guarded person. Been that way my entire life, so you gotta  understand that I'm trying here. Let me in I'll open up like a fucking  flower in spring," I gasp and laugh at that analogy.         

     



 

"I thought I knew you." She folds her arm. Adorable face contorted with  disappointment. "But that shouldn't even matter. It hasn't even been  twenty-four hours since your drunk ass stumbled into my life. We don't  know each other."

"That's what I'm trying to change, Angelique." My tone is hard, per the  norm, but harder than she's used to. The way my eyes lock onto hers lets  Angelique know that this conversation is not negotiable. At least not  anymore. With a loud grumble, she opens the door. I nod my appreciation.

About five years ago, my Uncle Juan convinced Aunt Célia to upgrade the  kitchens in each bungalow. Though they've always aspired to distance  themselves from timeshares and the like, I convinced him that a few  mainstream updates were essential. It took months for her to agree, and  in return she got my mother, Carmen's agreement.

The state-of-the-art kitchen becomes my element as I put things away.

"Maybe an appetizer will do, Franco, after that I'm going to go to  dinner. Out and without you," She mumbles about jewelry as I begin to  get to work.

Next thing I know, Angelique is clasping on turquoise earrings, as she reminds me that this is a quick taster.

"Yup," I disregard her desire to brush me off quickly and smile just slightly.

Again she does that cute, guttural grumble. Angelique sits on a bar  stool. While watching me chop aromatics, Angelique opens the orange  juice and chugs.

"No chaser for me?" My eyebrow arches.

"Nope." Her lips pop together.

"You're a cold piece, Jelly."

"You cannot call me Jelly." She snaps, pointing the bottle in my direction.

"But of course I can call you, Jelly. I just did. And you're making me  wish I had brought along juice boxes like we're kids or something."

She rolls her eyes, though those gorgeous mocha orbs are twinkling with  laughter. "Relax, you want a chaser for your alcohol? You were throwing  back the bottle all night long. There's some juice in the fridge. So  what are you cooking and you know what, why are you here? You  apologized. You gifted me with my favorite drink. And I'm not stupid,  you're not whipping up …  jalapeno poppers. Or some other quick fix."

Instead of responding, I grab the orange juice before Angelique can  place it at her lips. I walk to the cupboard where the cups are and grab  one out to pour myself some. Then I hold out the juice but she doesn't  take it from my waiting hand.

That hard glower flits from my attempt at generosity to glare me down.  "You should be running around with Selena instead of barking up my tree.  She still wants you."

Grabbing a bright red pepper from the bag, I toss it in the air, then  place it on the cutting board. "Bullshit. Selena only wants the small  screen version of me."

"Boy, you're really are on one. All she could do was tell me about sex and – "

"Selena told you about  … " My voice trails off as the woman across from me observes me as her enemy, some sort of toy to taunt.

"Does that hurt?" Angelique grins, as if my pain brings her the utmost  pleasure. Little does the minx know that I could give a fuck about  Selena's feelings. "Men do it all the time, Franco. Talk about women.  Compare them … "

"Nah, it doesn't hurt. Don't compare me to men. Even on my worst day,  I'm in a class of my own." I blink as she smirks. "I'm just shocked,  Angelique, that's all. She probably wanted to annoy you, to brag."

"Brag about you? Brag – my ass," Angelique says all too quickly. I look  her in the eye. She turns away, proof that Selena just wanted to tell  the nearest ear how she got boned by a celebrity chef. "Look, we've  already determined that more than a liar, you don't listen. So, allow me  to repeat. Franco, you don't have to cook me dinner. I've already taken  your apology. I realize you are a man of your word, besides the amnesia  when it came to your name."

"Thank you for accepting."

"Go away, Franco," she huffs. "Go run back to Selena."

Placing the knife down, I glance at Angelique again. This isn't just her  being angry about my deception. The previous way she brought up Selena  was in annoyance as if I were a fly that she needed to shoo. Women,  they're so hard to understand. It takes a moment, but I come to realize  Angelique believes Selena is the one. The one who broke my heart …

I almost shift in my stance. Talking about myself is reserved for the  green light, but I fess up. "She's not the woman I told you about.  Okay?"

"No?" Angelique leans over on the table with her forearms. Cleavage  spilling forth, blinding me with desire and rendering me momentarily  stupid. Noticing my glance, Angelique then sits back up. Her cute eyes  narrow just a tad more as she takes on a respectable, shrewd demeanor.  And even with my cock ready to pounce, I then recall that I want to get  to know this girl …  first.         

     



 

"So Franco, Selena's not the girl?" Angelique's lips set in a frown.  "She bragged about being your girlfriend since you all were kids. So you  lied about being heartbroken too?"





CHAPTER 15


Angelique





WHY DO I want this? For us to be of like spirits, broken, hurt spirits.  For us both to have a heaviness at the pit of our stomach. With Franco, I  was real. I told him things I can't tell my best friend, or my mom, or  anyone else. I was too ashamed to tell Melody about my father's gambling  habit. She was the one who tried to be my friend at the new prep  school, and helped me out when the other rich students talked crap about  my ignorance of the designer brand. Heck, I damn near pushed her away  when my mom began to talk about divorce. I've told Franco that, too!

I told him that it wasn't all Carlton, but mistakes on my part in  wanting to make things work. Hell, I told Franco, exactly what I'd been  trying to get through that numbskull when he proposed. But the man  standing on the opposite side of the pony-wall, is supposed to  understand my plight. So I mention, Selena bragged all about them as  children. Then I can't catch myself because the anger is roiling within  my stomach. It makes me snap, "So you lied about being heartbroken,  too?"

"No. It wasn't a lie, Jelly."

There he says it again. My nickname. My left eyelid twitches in  irritation as I recall telling him the story last night about being  dubbed that name. Eduardo – I mean Franco, had me so wide open. I smile.  Which is still the wrong response. Since he just said that his broken  heart wasn't a tall tale.

"Don't punk out," I say. As machismo as Franco is, just the word ‘punk'  has gotten under his skin in the same manner as it did earlier. Albeit,  this afternoon at the cantina, I was operating off pure emotion, now I  just desire to goad him. From my observation, it's working wonderfully.  That makes the corners of my lips tingle in a desire to rise, but I  refuse to smile. I lean back on the high stool chair, and murmur, "Tell  me about her. I deserve to know."