One Perfect Man. Lynda Sandoval
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the side of her fist on the steering wheel. It didn’t matter what Tomás Garza did or didn’t think about her, and it wasn’t worth the mental energy she’d been wasting on it for an entire week.
Interested, not interested, or full-on disgusted, facts were facts: the sum total of her association with Tomás was (1) his contribution to the Cultural Arts Festival, and (2) the quinceañera she would plan for his daughter, Hope—to the tune of five grand in her business fund. And the sole purpose of this dinner meeting tonight was to meet Hope and discuss preliminary plans. Period. She needn’t obsess about anything else. So she’d taken extra pains with her outfit this evening, with her hair and makeup. Big whoop. She’d merely hoped to try for a second chance at an obviously poor first impression, despite the old adage that claimed no such chance existed.
Sometimes a woman just had to try.
Erica forced her mind on to the business at hand and gave one last glance at the directions Tomás had e-mailed her, hoping she was close. She’d driven so far into the boonies that his directions were now reduced to such landmarks as, “pass the blue-fenced property with a brown-and-white horse and a goat in the pasture, then turn left at the next dirt farm road adjacent to the large piñon tree.” Thank goodness for cell phones or she might never make it, not that it would be such a bad thing….
Yes. Yes, it would be a bad thing. She was a business professional with a reputation to uphold, and this was a business meeting. She straightened her shoulders, tossed her hair. After a weekend of researching quinceañera traditions, she’d actually come up with some fun ideas, and she looked forward to running them by Tomás and his daughter and grandmother. She prayed Hope was an easy child to get along with and could only wish her first encounter with Hope and the grandmother would be better than—
Erica pressed her lips together in a resolute line.
Forget that. She was done thinking about it, done feeling humiliated, done apologizing. The last thing she needed in her life right now was a man, anyway, so the point was so moot it wasn’t even a point. Meet the girl, plan the event and get out of this situation with her sanity and her independence intact—that was the goal. The only goal.
Spying the large piñon tree she’d almost missed, Erica jerked the wheel and made a bouncing turn onto the dirt farm road that would lead her to whatever lay ahead. As the dust cloud cleared, so did her head. Finally. She could survive this. No sweat. Well…not much, anyway.
Hope swung her stocking feet under the table and watched her father from beneath her lashes with a mixture of wonder and amusement. Something was definitely up. He bustled around the kitchen between the oven, the countertop and the bubbling pots atop the stove while she pretended to work on homework at the kitchen table. She was able to work here rather than in her room because tonight they were eating at the dining room table, believe it or not. Needless to say, she wasn’t making much progress on her boring French conjugations. Watching Dad was way more interesting at this point and WAY distracting.
Who was this lady he’d hired to help plan the quinceañera, anyway? Hope hadn’t seen her dad this…spazzed out for a long time, and they never ate at the dining room table unless it was, like, a holiday. Seriously, Thanksgiving, Christmas and their birthdays, period. Never on a regular old Wednesday.
Speaking of holidays—she inhaled, trying to pretend she wasn’t actually sniffing him—was Dad wearing cologne? He smelled like Christmas, since the only time he seemed to wear his Gray Flannel cologne was for Christmas dinner each year. He usually just smelled like laundry soap and bleach, like the paste and paper in his studio. Comfortable, like her dad.
But he was wearing cologne now. She was 99.9 percent sure.
Not only that, but he was dressed UP. He wore his black microfiber slacks, the ones she begged him to buy because they were SO cool and he didn’t want to because they weren’t practical, and black shirt—with buttons! Like, a shirt for church, not one of his regular day shirts. Not only that, but the house was spotless, smelling of pine trees and lemons, and he’d been racing around all nervous, exactly like a guy preparing to impress someone on a hot, first date.
It so rocked!
The cologne, clothing, and cleanliness were definite clues that something was brewing. Business meeting? Yeah, sure. Maybe partly, but it was so totally more than that. Tonight’s “meeting” was special, and she might only be fourteen but she knew why. Duh, can you say obvious? They were learning about variables in algebra, and the only variable tonight was this Erica, so it had to be her. Her dad was making all this effort for a woman, something he never, ever did. It was so completely romantic that Hope’s tummy swirled with anticipation. She fought to hold back a giggle!
Biting her lip, Hope made a mental note to keep a close eye on her father tonight. She was pretty good at reading him, which wasn’t saying much because he was a total open book. If he was interested in this lady, all Hope had to say about it was, like, FINALLY. Sheesh. Her dad always claimed he was happy without a wife or girlfriend, but Hope knew better. She was just in the way. She was! But maybe things were changing? From the looks of things, this Erica was the first woman in a long time who even had a remote shot at the title of girlfriend when it came to her stubborn dad.
Her tummy clenched and she fought back another nervous giggle. Hope had no idea what would happen after tonight—maybe nothing at all. But she knew one thing for sure: things in the Garza household were about to get WAY interesting.
By the time Erica pulled up the long gravel drive, her focus of anxiety had moved to Hope. She hadn’t been ex-aggerating when she’d told Tomás she wasn’t really a kid person, and yet she knew kids were far more intuitive than adults. They quickly recognized adults who were uncomfortable around them, and she knew she’d be pegged. Her only hope at this point was that the assignment wouldn’t turn out to be horrid.
She glanced at the buildings up ahead, taking in this home, getting a feel for the animal in his natural habitat, so to speak. Tomás’s low, smallish house looked to be authentic adobe; the setting sun washed it into shades of gold and peach that Erica found both beautiful and charming. Behind it loomed a newer, large wooden structure, probably a barn. A barn? She took in the property, saw no animals. Undulating meadows spread out around the house and barn, covered with scrub oak, sage, and piñon and juniper trees. Though she was a city girl at heart, she couldn’t deny this would be a great place to raise children.
Okay, she’d stalled enough, avoiding that moment of truth when she’d have to face Tomás again and meet his daughter. What kind of person would be afraid of a fourteen-year-old girl? Idiot. Pulling in a deep breath, Erica stopped her car behind a black Ford pickup parked adjacent to the house and turned off the ignition. As the hot engine ticked, she resisted the urge to flip down her visor and check her makeup in the mirror one last time. Just nerves. She could beat them.
Alighting from the car, she retrieved a black-leather portfolio from the back seat along with her purse. She followed the small sidewalk up to the front door and then lifted her fist and hesitated only momentarily before knocking on the bright red door. As she stepped back and waited, she braced herself for the awkward moment when she’d face Tomás again, uneasy especially because she was on his turf this time.
When the door opened, however, Tomás wasn’t on the other side. Instead, Erica faced a bright-eyed little tomboy who stood, one stocking foot atop the other, smiling shyly. The girl wore low-rise jeans and a baggy Buffy the Vampire Slayer T-shirt that sort of ruined the effect of the cute tummy-baring pants. She had Tomás’s watchful, tiger’s-eye gaze and a choppy haircut that was as bad as it was endearing. Erica wondered if the girl had cut it herself, and a pang of…something unrecognizable tightened her middle. Compassion? She smiled. “Hope?”
“Hi.” The girl teetered on that precipice between girl and woman, gangly and unsure. “My dad’s in the kitchen.” She stepped back from the door and tilted her head. “Come on in, Ms…. I don’t know your last name.”
“How about if you just call me Erica?” She stepped over the threshold into a warm, welcoming living room appointed with deep, comfortable mission-style furniture and bold colors. Intricate