Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

Look at me, I still work but”—he puts up his fingers to count—“I have a wife, eight children, twelve grandchildren, and seven great-grandchildren. A life llena de felicidad.”

I expect Wyatt to make a joke that the cook’s definition of joy doesn’t match his own. Being a professional athlete requires a different focus than leading a small-town eatery. Still, to my surprise, he nods. “You’re right. I promise I’ll take your advice to heart.”

I give him a ‘what happened to you’ glare, but Wyatt only smiles at me briefly before returning his eyes to Tio Filippo.

The old man is apparently happy that Wyatt didn’t shake off his wise words, because he claps his hands. “Perfect. I suggest you start tonight. There is music, and you’ve got lovely company, so…” While he lets his phrase trail off, he shoots a foxy, slanted glance at me.

My cheeks heat.

“We wanted to eat some of your special pozole,” I say, brushing a curl behind my ear.

“That works, too.” The man chuckles. “First, my broth, them some nice dancing for you two!” He takes two ceramic bowls. While he fills them with the thick red liquid, he asks, “By the way, do you know how you can befriend a squirrel?”

Tio Filippo’s pork broth is as much an institution in Kingman as his habit of cracking humorless jokes over and over again. This particular one-liner has been in his repertoire ever since I can remember.

Still, Wyatt shakes his head, and I follow his example.

“Just act like a nut.” Tio Filippo’s bellowing whoops fill the air. “You get it? A nut!”

Wyatt chuckles politely.

I give the cook a warm smile. “That’s funny.”

Tio Filippo hands us our pozoles, then taps the top of his head. “I’ve got another one. What do cows most like to read?” Without waiting for our reaction, he answers straight away. “Cattle-logs.”

While the cook cackles at his own joke, Wyatt’s warm palm lands on my lower back. Though he probably meant his gesture as a sign that he’s had enough of Tio Filippo’s humor, my complete body lights up at his touch. I need to tighten my grip on the soup to avoid spilling it. Especially when Wyatt’s thumb brushes briefly against the small portion of the bare skin between my crop top and shorts.

Wyatt grins. “That was a good one, too. Now we’ll move along and leave you to your other customers.” He gives me a gentle push and guides me farther toward an empty table.

We sit down and attack our soups.

“Mhm, it’s just as good as I remembered,” Wyatt sighs.

He’s right. The smokiness of the dense chile broth, the corn’s delicate aroma, and the intensely spiced bits of pork come together into heavenly synchrony.

“I wonder what his secret ingredient is…” I mumble between spoonfuls. “I asked Laia’s mom to make me this stew once, and she’s an excellent cook, but even her creation didn’t measure up to this.”

“I can tell you.” Wyatt waves for me to lean closer.

I arch my brows at him. “What? Don’t tell me you know what Tio Filippo mixes into his soup to make it this addictive?”

He wiggles his brows. “I do. But you need to come closer because I don’t want his trade secret outed.”

Though other people are seated at the neighboring tables, I feel that Wyatt is tricking me into getting closer to him.

But I still obey.

His mouth almost brushes my earlobe as he leans into me, sending my pulse into a frenzied race.

“It’s carnitas cooked in Mexican Coca-Cola,” he murmurs.

“Get out!” I exclaim and recoil with feigned surprise. Though the discovery that the cook uses the soft drink I despise is puzzling, I exaggerate my bewilderment to hide the effect Wyatt had on me. “How do you know this?”

Wyatt looks surprised for a second, then he pulls back and his face steels.

“Wyatt…” Despite the thrills still cascading down my spine from his fiery breath, I inch nearer to him again. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he says but avoids looking at me.

“It doesn’t seem nothing to me. It’s almost as if my question swept away your playfulness somehow. Did I remind you of something?”

His gaze snaps to mine. “Asking as my therapist?”

“No. Asking as someone who cares about you.”

“In that case…” Wyatt draws in a breath and keeps his eyes locked with mine. “I know this…because this pozole used to be my father’s go-to remedy for his hangovers. When the booze would wear off and his stomach got queasy, he would make Mom get him some pozole. After buying the soup for years, one day Tio Filippo confided to Mom his secret ingredient.”

I shake my head. “Oh gosh, I used to see your mom with those food containers. I always assumed she brought that food to you because you loved Mexican dishes.”

Wyatt sighs. “Yeah, it’s probably one of the few things my father and I have in common.”

I wait because I sense there’s something more coming.

After a second, Wyatt adds, “On Thursdays, when it was Father’s turn to pick me up from training, I’d sometimes convince him to stop at Tio’s eatery on our way home and get a load of soup. Those were the rare occasions he and I talked without fighting. We’d talk about school, girls, and football. Mom always wondered why none of us would eat anything for dinner those nights.”

My eyes widen.

This is the third time today that Wyatt has associated his father with something other than the image of an abusive drunk.

Could it be that their relationship was slightly more layered than he wishes to remember? There must have been plenty of bad, even terrible, things that Wyatt lived through with his dad. But perhaps there were also good things Wyatt removed from his consciousness so he could continue hating his father?

He, too, seems to realize that his words didn’t follow his usual thought patterns because his face freezes.

I don’t want him to sink into a sullen mood, nor do I wish to turn our evening into a therapy session. We’ll have enough time for that once he