“You’ve done a good job with him,” I say.
She pauses her stirring to contemplate the bacon. “He was a wild thing when he was a boy. I worried that he’d turn out bad. But he learns from his mistakes. Like I said,” she begins to stir again, “trainable.”
Eager to hear stories of Brody as a boy, I’m just about to pepper Magda with questions when the man himself walks in through the patio doors.
He’s barefoot and dripping, still in his wetsuit, smiling a smile that would put the sun to shame. “My two favorite girls in the kitchen,” he says, his gaze trained on me, green eyes alight.
Magda barks something at him in Spanish that I don’t bother to translate. I run over to him and fling my arms around his neck.
He laughs, staggering back a few steps. “Whoa. Did someone have a Red Bull this mor
