Page 49
“Graciella.”
“Monroe,” I mimicked. “I’m serious. This date is the kick-off to this whole thing, and if you mess it up, we will have even more work than we already do. So humor me, and show me you know how to do more than grunt and complain.”
His jaw ticked, eyes narrowed on me. Thick fingers drumming on the cool surface.
The cornerstone of our relationship was these long pauses filled with icy glares and the unspoken challenge that whoever broke first was a pussy.
“Fine,” he bit out, before—honest to god—stomping toward me. “How are we even supposed to do this? You want me to list out what I’m going to do? How will that help?” Every word came out more exasperated.
Men are so dramatic.
“I want you to show me, Monroe.”
“How the fu—”
“Role-play, pendejo. Have you never worked retail?” His large hand was warm in mine as I pulled him to the round table tucked in a breakfast nook.
Sunlight cut through the bay windows, streaking the wooden top with warm rays.
I pointed to a cream-and-navy striped chair, wondering whether he’d picked everything out for his home or hired someone. “Put your grumpy ass in it. We’re gonna pretend we’re at dinner.”
He scoffed and swatted my hand.
“If this were a real date, I’d never let you pull out your own seat,” he said, pushing me down onto the plush cushion, mumbling about being a proper gentleman as he shoved the chair in.
“On your date with Itzel, don’t try and impale her with the edge of the table,” I said, scooting back out an inch so I could breathe.
He sat across from me and flashed a rare smile.
“Nope, that move is special. Just for you.”
My body didn’t get the memo that the comment was sarcasm, and a bunch of butterflies erupted low in my stomach.
Which was stupid. This whole thing was fake. We were in his house, about to be served plastic food by his daughter.
Get. It. Together.
“Now what?” he asked with as much enthusiasm as someone getting a root canal. His arm slung across the back of the chair.
“Seriously? I thought you said you knew how to act on a date. Now would be when you’d ask me about myself.”
Nothing but a blank stare from him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I threw my hands up. “Like ask me what kind of cheese I like, so I can say. ‘My favorite’s Gouda’ and you can smirk at how clever I am for quoting the classics.”
He blinked a few times, like I’d broken his brain.
“Was that slurred speech?” He reached across the table, the back of his hand aimed for my forehead. “Are you having a stroke?”
I swatted him away. “First, how would checking for a fever confirm a stroke? More importantly, don’t you watch anything besides game tape? That line is iconic.”
His face answered for him. No.
I pulled out my notebook and flipped to the Monroe section. There were more scribbled notes than the last time I’d pulled it out in front of him. The page was littered with bullet points and crossed-out ideas.
“Make Monroe watch the classics,” I said as I wrote. “Do you watch anything besides film?”
“If it’s not film, then it’s probably Bluey I’m watching. Big Bluey household over here. Pretty sure I’ve got all episodes memorized, Golds watches ’em so often.”
