Head over heels for my uncle Pedro

chapter 3

Michelle POV.

"He'll be here any minute!" my dad shouted from downstairs, his voice brimming with excitement. He was thrilled that Uncle Pedro was coming to spend some days this summer with us. Meanwhile, I was in my room, getting ready to face the man I hated the most—or rather, the one I'd had a crush on for years.

When I was eight, Uncle Pedro used to spend a lot of time playing with me. I didn't have many friends and never really knew how to make them; I was always on my own. So, whenever he visited, I'd get incredibly excited. He'd buy me toys, take me shopping for dolls, and let me eat and do whatever I wanted. I smiled as I brushed my hair, sitting close to the mirror by my bed. What would it feel like to see him again after all these years? I remembered how, on my birthday, he'd bought me a beautiful gown. When I put it on, he told me I was the most beautiful girl in the world and danced with me, making me feel like I was the only person alive.

At first, I thought he was just being a kind uncle. But when he announced he was moving to another country for work and wouldn't be able to spend time with me anymore, it shattered me. I felt like a part of me had been ripped away. I cried for weeks. He promised to send birthday gifts, which he did for the first two years before stopping altogether. I couldn't reach him—no phone calls, no letters. Mom and Dad said he was too busy, but to me, he was just a liar, abandoning me to face the world alone.

"Michelle!" my mother called, knocking on my door.

"I'll be out in a minute, Mom," I replied.

"You better hurry—your favorite Uncle Pedro will be here soon!"

"Alright, Mom, I'll be downstairs in a bit." I stood up, smoothing out my gown. I was turning nineteen this weekend, and I hoped he would stay long enough for my birthday party. Smiling at the thought, I headed downstairs.

As I descended, I nearly slipped on the polished floor—this was our new house, and I was still getting used to it. Ever since Dad struck it rich, he'd decided we deserved our own place. I loved it; the house was massive and was recently beautifully furnished, perfect for hosting the richest uncle around. Dad has been expecting Uncle Pedro for months now talking nice and rich things about him. I'm sure Dad just wanted to impress him, but Mom said he missed Pedro and wanted to make him comfortable. I'd even heard from my dad that Pedro had inherited his father's business and was now one of the wealthiest men on the planet, though he wasn't very famous.

"He's here!" Dad shouted, and we all rushed outside to greet him.

A sleek black car pulled through our unfinished gate and stopped at the entrance. The door opened, and out stepped Uncle Pedro—nothing like I'd imagined. He wasn't just cute; he was handsome as hell. His physique was straight out of a romantic movie, clad in tailored black trousers and a blue long-sleeved shirt that revealed the top of his chest. His muscles rippled beneath the fabric, his eyes were bold and fearless, and when he smiled... oh God, that smile was impossibly sexy. I was instantly captivated—he was literally the hottest man alive.

"Oh, Pedro!" Dad exclaimed, rushing forward to hug him.

"I've missed you all," Pedro said, and they embraced again, laughing heartily. Mom hurried over next, wrapping him in a hug.

"Oh, Pedro, you look so different!"

"In a bad way?" he asked with a grin.

"No, of course not—you look amazing!"

"And you look magnificent."

"Oh, thank you, Pedro."

"Michelle, come greet your uncle," Dad called. But I couldn't move; I was frozen, staring at him. Then he walked toward me, and my God, he smelled incredible.

"Hi, Michelle," he said, standing close. "How have you been?"

Before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out: "You left me."

"I'm so sorry. Please forgive me, my baby girl," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" I yanked his hand away. "Why weren't you here all those years when I needed you?"

"I'm here now."

"No! Go away! I don't ever want to see you again!" I shouted, turning and running back into the house.

"Michelle!" My parents called after me, but I didn't stop.

"Don't worry, I'll talk to her," he said, and I heard him following.

I couldn't believe I'd burst out like that. Why had I let my emotions take over? What would my parents think of me now? f**k it—I just couldn't stand being so close to him. All I could think about was hugging him and kissing him deeply.

In my room, I struggled to slam the door shut, but he was too strong; his hand blocked it. I had no choice but to let go and retreat to my bed, burying my face in the pillow. I heard him close the door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed in silence for a moment before clearing his throat.

"Michelle..."

"Go away," I cried. "I don't want you to see me like this."

"Oh, my sweet baby girl," he said softly. "I am so sorry.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it at him with all the frustration I'd bottled up for years.

"I hate you!" I shouted, voice cracking.

Another pillow flew. "I hate you! You’re such a liar! You said you’d come back—you promised you’d send me gifts every year, but you lied! You just lied!"

The words poured out as tears streamed down my face. I cried like the little girl I used to be, the one who waited by the window every birthday hoping a package would arrive with his handwriting on it. Even if I wanted to stop, I couldn’t. I missed him too much—missed him so badly it hurt to breathe.

He didn’t flinch at the pillows. Instead, he stepped closer, arms open, and pulled me into a tight hug before I could push him away again.

“I’m so sorry, Michelle,” he whispered against my hair, voice low and rough with regret. “I’m so damn sorry.”

I fought for half a second—then gave in. My arms wrapped around him, clinging like I was afraid he’d disappear again. His body was solid and warm against mine, the same comforting heat I remembered from when I was small and he’d carry me on his shoulders. I buried my face in his chest, inhaling the clean, expensive scent of his cologne mixed with something deeper, something that was just him. For the first time in years, I felt safe. Really safe.

He held me tighter, one hand stroking my back in slow, soothing circles while the other cradled the back of my head.

“I never meant to hurt you, baby girl.”

I didn’t say anything. I just cried into his shirt, letting years of hurt and longing spill out while he rocked me gently, like I was still that eight-year-old who believed he hung the moon.

Eventually my sobs quieted to shaky breaths. I didn’t pull away, though. Neither did he.

“I’m here now,” he said softly, pressing a light kiss to the top of my head.

I tilted my head back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were dark, intense, filled with something I couldn’t quite name—regret, yes, but also something warmer, deeper. My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could feel it against his chest.

For a long moment we just stared at each other, the air between us thick and charged.

Then, barely above a whisper, I said, “Don’t lie to me again.”

“I won’t,” he promised, thumb brushing a tear from my cheek. “Never again.”