Chapter 11
1281 Words
•Penelope•
If I hadn’t wasted nearly seven hours scrolling i********: before our trip, I might’ve believed him.
Not that it mattered. I was no one to him. It shouldn’t be a big deal.
It really shouldn't.
Still, my eyes followed him as he crossed to the mirror in the parlor, muttering a curse under his breath.
“This isn’t what it looks like, I swear.”
Right. Because lipstick just magically shows up on a man’s neck like a rash.
God, please help me.
Why does the thought of him with another woman hurt my heart?
I pushed past him toward the kitchen. “I’ll start dinner.”
But before I could reach the counter, his hand closed gently but firmly around my wrist. “No. I’ll explain.”
I kept my eyes on the cutting board, willing my pulse to calm down. “You don’t have to. Like I said, it’s not—”
“It is,” he cut in. His voice was steady, but there was a faint edge, like he hated that I might think the worst.
“I went to the store to grab a few things for dinner and I wanted to tell you but I wasn’t sure if you were done praying. While at the store, I ran into an old friend from when I first came to Oakridge . She hugged me, that’s all. I didn’t even notice the lipstick stain until you pointed it out.”
He released my wrist, letting the air fill the space between us.
I nodded slowly, pretending to accept it, even managing a small smile. “Sure. An old friend.”
“Were you by chance jealous?” His eyes caught mine, almost teasing, almost testing.
“Jealous?” I scoffed, though my voice betrayed the heat curling in my chest. “I was furious. You left me here all alone, and I imagined it was to go see a woman.”
Miguel’s smirk faded into something softer. “I’m really sorry. Extremely. I’ll go prepare dinner now, okay?”
I only nodded, my throat suddenly too tight for words, and watched as he peeled his shirt over his head. His abs glistened with sweat, every ripple catching the light like it was mocking my composure.
What I felt was definitely jealousy, nothing else.
I watched as he cooked, moving around the kitchen with precise knowledge. Is there a thing this man couldn’t do?
Before I decided to join the convent, I had always wished for a man like him, not in age but in physique and attitude.
His arms flexed as he chopped onions, sweat glistening on his olive skin. The man was perfectly ripped, a broad back and sexiest v-line I’ve ever seen.
He turned to me, and winked with a playful smile on his lips.
Father, please help.
By the time he plated the food, the kitchen smelled so good it annoyed me.
I hated giving him points.
Miguel slid a plate toward me like he was dealing cards. “Your first taste of my culinary genius.”
I raised a brow. “Genius? I guess I will be the judge of that”
“Oh, I’m very much certain you’ll be biting your fingers,” he said, settling across from me. “Go on. Try it.”
I took a bite, chewed slowly holding back a moan from how good it tasted, then pretended to think hard. “It’s… edible.”
His mouth fell open. “Edible? You’re cruel, mi pequeña jueza.”
“I am not,” I countered, stabbing another forkful anyway.
He leaned back in his chair, watching me with that half-smile that made everything feel like a dare. “You can pretend not to like it all you want,” he said, “but you’re still eating.”
I’m not sure what surprised me more, the confidence or the fact this man just said something in another language with a thick accent.
I froze mid-bite. “What did you just say?”
Miguel grinned like he’d been waiting for that question. “Mi pequeña jueza. My little judge.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Since when did you start speaking another language? And don’t throw insults at me.”
In all the news I read about him, I saw nothing about him being bilingual.
Again, why did the things he did bother me so much?
“It wasn’t an insult,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “It’s affectionate.”
“Uh-huh. And what language was that exactly?”
“Spanish,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows. “I grew up speaking it with my abuela. My family’s from Seville.”
I blinked. “But there was nothing about that online. How much information do you withhold from the press? You speak English so fluently that I didn't even notice it was your second language.”
He laughed, the sound low and warm. “You really took notes, and yes my past is hidden from the press for personal reasons and my English is smooth because I grew up here in this country.”
“That is so cool,” I said, stabbing another bite. “Say something else.”
He smirked, lowering his voice like he was telling a secret. “Si sigues comiendo así, vas a pedirme otra porción.”
I squinted. “It sounds so sweet but it feels like another insult.”
“It means,” he said, eyes glinting, “you’re going to ask me for seconds.”
I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t deny it.
Miguel reached up to grab a pan from the rack, the movement making the muscles in his back shift like they were showing off just for me.
A bead of sweat slid from his temple down along the sharp line of his jaw, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
Or what was left of it, because he’d already stripped it off earlier, leaving me staring at his chest, the smooth planes of his abs glistening faintly under the kitchen light.
I swallowed. Audibly.
His lips twitched. “Careful, mi pequeña jueza,” he murmured, turning just enough to catch me looking. “If you keep staring at me like that, I might—”
Ding-dong.
The sound of the doorbell snapped the air between us like a stretched rubber band.
We both froze.
Miguel’s smile deepened, slow and knowing. “Saved by the bell, huh?”
“Can you help me check the door while I clean up here?”
I nodded, grateful for the little distraction, I didn’t know what I would have done if he kept looking at me like that.
I wiped my palms on my dress and padded to the front door, still trying to get my pulse under control after whatever that just was in the kitchen.
When I opened it, a tall, graceful woman in a black belted coat and heels that could probably break my ankles stood on the porch with her back to me like she was deliberately staging her entrance.
She turned, and I’m not sure which struck me first. Her beautiful face or the fact she was practically naked underneath the coat.
A scarlet strap lace, that’s all she wore and it wasn’t even enough. I could see her n****e through the sheer fabric and her mound.
I just stared, my brain trying to catch up or maybe formulate a sentence but there was absolutely nothing.
Her gaze flicked over me like she was accessing my place, “Oh a new maid.”
Maid?
“Is Miguel home?”
- Writer
