Apples & Oranges (The This & That Series) (2 page)

“My
family
is here,” I said in a low voice. “And I have to get back to work.”

My mother smiled, though it looked more like a grimace. Her voice took on a steely quality that made
me shiver with fear. I’d heard that tone plenty of times growing up. “Oh, please, Marisol. Don’t be so dramatic.” Annalise paused for dramatic effect as I picked my purse up off of the floor. “You don’t
have
a family, remember?”

Sucking a deep breath, I tucked my purse in the crook of my elbow.
Annalise always knew how to go for the jugular. All of our lunches ended the same way. Me with hurt feelings, and her with the hefty ego boost that came from humiliating her only child.

I stood up and crossed to the other side of the table robotically. Bending down to kiss her plastic cheek, I whispered, “Have a safe flight home.”

Chapter Two

One broken four-inch heel, two sweat marks on a Michael Kors cowl neck blouse, three chipped fingernails, and a broken down BMW 3 Series convertible. Not exactly a fun way to top off my debunked luncheon with my mother.

             
“
Maldito coche!
”
I hissed as I hiked across the busy street.

             
A woman pushing a stroller in the crosswalk glared at me. “Nice language.”

“How was I to know you’d understand?” I snapped. It wasn’t my fault she’d heard me calling my car a piece of
you know what.
Besides, who walked their baby around in ninety-degree weather? “Buy a minivan, breeder.”

A car honked at me, but I ignored it. The “walk” sign had long since started flashing red, but I couldn’t move any faster, thanks to my busted shoe. I’d left my iPhone under the napkin at the restaurant so I couldn’t call for a tow, and the unseasonably warm May weather was making my most recent blow-out worthless. Being forced to walk to the nearest auto shop was the icing on
my crap cake of a day.

I didn’t
walk
places. I drove places. Walking was what tree huggers did because they thought car exhaust was the devil. The only time I ever walked was when I was cooling down on the treadmill after a work out, which usually involved my gorgeous trainer, and in that case, I didn’t mind. But in ninety-degree heat with a messed up shoe?
I minded.

By the time I hobbled into the first garage I’d come across in this sketchy neighborhood—because when do cars ever break down in nice, gated communities with manicured lawns and luxury cars parked in the driveway?—I
felt like a limp piece of lettuce. My hair was flat, my clothes were wrinkled and soaked, and I was pretty sure I’d sweated most of my makeup down into a bronze ring at the base of my neck.

Limping past the door of the corrugated metal shop with a red roof, I headed straight for the open double garage doors. There was no time to chitchat with some sort of dimwitted receptionist, and there had to be some grease
monkey underneath one of these pieces of crap. I was in a mood. I’d just spent forty-five minutes across a table from
my mother,
and
if that wasn’t enough to put someone on edge, I didn’t know what would.
My stomach dropped as I passed the mirrored glass door. I never went in public looking like this.
Ever.

“What can I do for
ya?”

             
Jumping, I tripped over a crack in the cement and stumbled into the garage. A kid in his early twenties with a prominent nose and dark, shaggy hair stood before me. His coveralls were oil stained and greasy, and he peered up at me from underneath the hood of a beat up truck that looked like it should’ve been laid to rest a decade ago. He’d clearly be gorgeous one day, once he’d gotten the chance to grow into his Mediterranean features, but for now he was sporting the awkwardly cute appearance of someone who knew not the full extent of his capability. I remembered those days.

             
“Yeah. I need help.” I tugged off my other shoe and tossed both of them into a nearby trashcan. The back of my blouse was completely plastered to my skin.

             
His eyes widened. “Hey-yo. I can help you. What seems to be the problem, pretty lady?” As he stood upright, he whacked his head into the truck hood. He blushed and rubbed his tousled head sheepishly. “Ow. Sorry.”

             
I would’ve laughed, had I not been on the verge of heat exhaustion.

When his eyes roamed from the top of my head, down to my toes, and back up again,
lingering far too long on my cleavage, I sneered and said, “Is it take your son to work day today?”

             
Years and years ago, I’d left the seventh grade in May with the body of a pubescent boy, then returned in September with the body of a Playboy model. I’d inherited my mother’s curves and my father’s Puerto Rican good looks, and whether I liked it or not, men took notice. Annalise eventually took me shopping, introducing me to the fun of lingerie shopping and four inch heels. By the time I was sixteen, I’d grown fond of the leering stares and the way I could control men with the flip of the hair or the jut of a hip. Now that I was in my thirties, I used my looks to my advantage for everything from lowered insurance premiums to free mochas.

Hey, you work with what you got, right?

              The kid in the coveralls smirked. “Yeah, right. My dad doesn’t work here.”

             
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re what? Sixteen? Seventeen, kid?”

             
“Nineteen,” he replied with a grin.

             
“Tempting, big guy.” I lifted my dampened hair off of my neck, and his eyebrows rose higher on his forehead. “But really, the sign says family owned and operated. Who runs this place?”

             
He straightened his shoulders. “Who says I don’t? Want a tour?”

             
This kid was persistent, I had to give him that. But I didn’t do the cougar thing. Not with boys
that
young, anyway. The youngest I dated was twenty-two, a full decade younger than me. I’d only done that because Candace had declared it inappropriate and morally wrong. And, well, I couldn’t let her win that argument, could I? We’d only gone out a few times before I realized I was in competition with the guy’s Xbox, and that wasn’t gonna fly. I stuck to my own age bracket or older, now.

             
“I’ll pass on that tour.” I pulled my wallet out of my handbag, then slid my platinum card out of its worn slot. “But seriously, my car’s broken down on Manito Boulevard, and I need a tow.”

             
He laughed. “That sucks.”

             
“Sure does.” This kid was getting on my nerves. Pressing my lips together, I glanced at his embroidered nametag. “So,
Trey,
do you think you could find someone to run out there and get it?”
              Trey put his hand on the edge of the truck and leaned back casually. It slipped, and he stumbled, then righted himself with a grin. “I might be talked into it.”

             
I tilted my head to the side. “Are you joking?”

             
Now, normally I enjoyed being flirted with as much as any girl—maybe even more—but today I wasn’t interested. Not only was this boy out of my preferred age bracket, but I was also an hour late getting back to work the day before a three hundred guest wedding. This was the last thing I needed, right now.

             
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

             
Aggravation crept up the back of my sticky neck like a spider, so I put my hands on my hips and leaned closer to the kid. He gulped. “Listen up. I’ve got a dead car holding up traffic out there, and a business partner who will fillet me and serve me up with capers if I don’t get my ass back to work. Understand?” He nodded, so I went on. “So how’s about you call your tow truck guy and let me borrow a phone, m’kay?”

             
Trey furrowed his dark eyebrows at me. “You don’t have a phone?”

             
“I left it at a restaurant, okay?” I snapped, wiping my brow. “Seriously, would it kill you guys to air condition this place?”

             
“Too expensive,” growled a low voice from the back of the shop, making Trey stand up straight and tuck his hands into his pockets like a good boy. “There’s a recession going on. Or haven’t you heard?”

             
Snarling, I peered around the edge of the truck. “How long have you been over there?”

             
“Long enough.” There was a scraping sound as a creeper rolled out from underneath a Honda Civic. “Judging by those fancy shoes you threw away, I don’t imagine someone like you understands the concept of a recession.”

             
“Excuse me?” I snapped.

             
“That’s my uncle.” Trey’s voice cracked, and he covered it up with a cough. “We’re business partners.”

There was a scoff from underneath the Honda. “Hey, Trey, why don’t you stop flirting with the woman and tell her whose name is on the lease?”

Whoever it was under that Civic, he needed a throat lozenge. This uncle’s voice sounded like he’d been gargling with broken glass for a decade or so. With a labored (or was that annoyed?) sigh, a man stood up and ambled towards me.

“Oh my,” I said under my breath, dropping my hair and smoothing down the front of my skirt.

This guy was appealing. And by that, I meant
straight shot of heat right to the center of my belly
hot. He was tall, taller than me in a pair of four inch Jimmy Choo’s, which meant around six feet, and that was enough to make me want to turn a backbend right there on the cracked cement floor.

“You are, Uncle Demo.” Trey pronounced the name like
Thee-mo,
the traditional Greek dialect rolling off his tongue like butter.

Oh, they’re Greek?

Demo sauntered towards me with a scowl. His dark eyes were hooded with thick black eyebrows, and a salt-and-mostly-pepper five o’clock shadow decorated the bottom half of his face. His dark hair, peppered with silver strands above the ears, was dampened at the nape of his tanned neck and stood in all directions. His coveralls were undone down to his waist, then tied in a knot at his hips, and all that he wore on the top half of his body was a tight white wife beater that practically sang next to his dark olive skin.

Demo, proprietor of Triple D’s Garage, was a bonafide
Mediterranean stud. Not that I ever dated the work-by-the-sweat-of-his-brow type. My mother called dating men like that “slumming it,” but I wouldn’t go that far. I just didn’t find the rough hands, scarred skin, covered in sweat thing to be hot. No, I usually stuck with doctors, lawyers and executive types. The kind that wore suits made out of Italian wool and drove cars as nice as mine or better. The kind who spent their days immersed in paperwork and strategy meetings, not axle grease and transmission fluid.

Hey, I’m not stupid. I knew it was shallow, but the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, I supposed. Squaring my shoulders, I turned my attention away from the horny kid and onto his buffed up relative. Maybe sticking with the guys in suits was overrated. Candace always said her ophthalmologist husband, Brian, was at his hottest when he was mowing the lawn shirtless. Maybe she had a point. Slumming it couldn’t be that bad
when guys like this were up for grabs.

I’ve got a Greek wedding to cater this summer. Maybe I can score a recipe for dolmades out of this. Work it, girl.

“Hi, Uncle Demo,” I said, sticking out my hand. I added a wink for good measure. “I’m Marisol Vargas.”

He pulled a stained grey rag out of his back pocket, and for a second I thought I was going to wipe off his hands before shaking my hand. But then he plucked a wrench off of the bumper of the Honda and started polishing it. “
Demetrious Marcos Antonopolous.”

“
Demetrious… Anan… pop… oh lous?” I grinned cheekily.

“
Antonopulous.” He said it like I was a moron for being confused by his freakishly complicated surname. Then his brow furrowed even more.

The fire in my belly fizzled. I sure hoped he wasn’t in charge of public relations for Triple D’s, otherwise they’d be closed by the end of the month. “That’s quite a mouthful,
Demetrious.”

“Demo.” His tongue did that
rolly-thing that made the name sound delicious. But his mouth was still pulled into a disapproving frown. That scowl was most undelicious.

“Uh, okay.” I stammered on my words.

“How’s that pickup coming?” He turned his frosty glare to his nephew. “Clint will be here for it in twenty. You gonna have it done in time?”

Trey’s chest puffed up. “‘Course.”

“Then why don’t you stop ogling the lady and get back to it.”

Trey turned back to the truck engine and muttered, “Yes, sir.”

Demo’s focus landed back on me, and a shiver wriggled its way up my spine. I couldn’t be sure if it was from being turned on or just a reaction to the frigidity he was exuding. “I’ll get your car tomorrow.”

“Okay, thanks...oh.” My shoulders dropped. “Wait. What?”

Demo’s dark eyes rolled. Or
almost
rolled, as he seemed to be struggling to keep his disdain at bay. “I said I’d get your car tomorrow.”
              “But it’s in the road.” I said dumbly.

“Is it pulled over on the shoulder?” He dropped the wrench into a nearby metal tool box, and it landed with a loud bang.

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Then I’ll get it tomorrow.
Or tonight, if you’re lucky.” Tucking the rag back into his back pocket, Demo used his boot to move the creeper underneath his legs. “Leave the keys on the desk and call around noon. Should have an estimate by then.”