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One Perfect Man
Lynda Sandoval
THE PERFECT NIGHT…Single-minded events planner Erica Goncalves was stuck on maintaining her independence–even if it meant turning down a job to keep a sexy single father away. But after he made an offer she couldn't refuse, Miss Independence learned that passionate love could smolder but not smother.COULD IT LEAD TO A LIFETIME OF MORE?Tomas Garza needed Erica's help turning his daughter Hope's quinceañera into the perfect night. And though he was immediately drawn to Erica, Tomas wouldn't risk having his daughter's heart broken–or his own–by getting involved with a woman who swore home and hearth were not for her. Still, he found Erica irresistible. Could he convince this career woman to turn in her single status for the family plan?



What in the hell had he been thinking?
After fourteen years of avoiding even the remote possibility of entanglements that might put his daughter in a vulnerable position, he’d willingly brought a beautiful woman into his house, into all their lives, even if only for business reasons. She was here, and the memory of her, he knew, would linger even when she’d left.
His daughter liked her. His grandmother liked her.
He even liked her, maybe a little too much.
He avoided entanglements, sure, but he’d never claimed to be celibate, and right now his libido was in rage mode. Damn. What had he been thinking, indeed?
Dear Reader,
Well, June may be the traditional month for weddings, but we here at Silhouette find June is busting out all over—with babies! We begin with Christine Rimmer’s Fifty Ways To Say I’m Pregnant. When bound-for-the-big-city Starr Bravo shares a night of passion with the rancher she’s always loved, she finds herself in the family way. But how to tell him? Fifty Ways is a continuation of Christine’s Bravo Family saga, so look for the BRAVO FAMILY TIES flash. And for those of you who remember Christine’s JONES GANG series, you’ll be delighted with the cameo appearance of an old friend….
Next, Joan Elliott Pickart continues her miniseries THE BABY BET: MACALLISTER’S GIFTS with Accidental Family, the story of a day-care center worker and a single dad with amnesia who find themselves falling for each other as she cares for their children together. And there’s another CAVANAUGH JUSTICE offering in Special Edition from Marie Ferrarella: in Cavanaugh’s Woman, an actress researching a film role needs a top cop—and Shaw Cavanaugh fits the bill nicely. Hot August Nights by Christine Flynn continues THE KENDRICKS OF CAMELOT miniseries, in which the reserved, poised Kendrick daughter finds her one-night stand with the town playboy coming back to haunt her in a big way. Janis Reams Hudson begins MEN OF CHEROKEE ROSE with The Daddy Survey, in which two little girls go all out to get their mother a new husband. And don’t miss One Perfect Man, in which almost-new author Lynda Sandoval tells the story of a career-minded events planner who has never had time for romance until she gets roped into planning a party for the daughter of a devastatingly handsome single father. So enjoy the rising temperatures, all six of these wonderful romances…and don’t forget to come back next month for six more, in Silhouette Special Edition.
Happy Reading!
Gail Chasan
Senior Editor

One Perfect Man
Lynda Sandoval

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For two of my biggest supporters, my uncles Arsenio Sandoval and Ray Sandoval.
Thanks for making me feel like what I do is important.
Big thanks to the following people for the help and support they gave me while I wrote this
book: Amy Sandrin, Terri Clark and LaRita Heet, my venerable writing pals and critiquers.
Patricia McLinn—for keeping me honest, Nicole Burnham—for the chats and confidences,
Karen Templeton, for the nod! (You rule.) Gail Chasan, my editor. I’m so thrilled to be
“one of yours.” Jenny Bent, my agent, friend and wise adviser. A million times, thanks (dude).
My mom, Neva Sandoval. My biggest fan! I love you. And to Trent, for all the ongoing
support, and my best dog-pal, Smidgey, with much love. I swear I’ll change out of my
fleece footie pajamas more often as I write the next book.

LYNDA SANDOVAL
is a former police officer who exchanged the excitement of that career for blissfully isolated days creating stories she hopes readers will love. Though she’s also worked as a youth mental health and runaway crisis counselor, a television extra, a trade-show art salesperson, a European tour guide and a bookkeeper for an exotic bird and reptile company—among other weird jobs—Lynda’s favorite career, by far, is writing books. In addition to romance, Lynda writes women’s fiction and young-adult novels, and in her spare time, she loves to travel, quilt, bid on eBay, hike, read and spend time with her dog. Lynda also works part-time as an emergency fire/medical dispatcher for the fire department. Readers are invited to visit Lynda on the Web at www.LyndaLynda.com, or to send mail with a SASE for reply to P.O. Box 1018, Conifer, CO 80433-1018.



Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue

Chapter One
There are two lasting bequests we can give our children:
One is roots. The other is wings.
—Hodding Carter, Jr.
Erica Gonçalves clutched her cell phone between ear and shoulder—no small feat considering the contraption was about the size of her palm and flat as a compact. The side of her head felt superglued to her shoulder, and the opposite side of her neck had stretched to the point where she’d likely need alternating heat and ice tomorrow just to function. She paid only scant attention to her mother’s voice on the other end of the line as she moved around the soon-to-be-full hotel meeting room with purposeful strides, assuring every minute detail had been attended to before everyone arrived.
Nothing annoyed her more than a poorly planned meeting, and seeing as how this was her dog-and-pony show, she wouldn’t stand for anything less than efficient structure, smooth flow and a high degree of productivity. Time was money, after all, and she never seemed to have enough of either. If she did, she’d be running her own event-planning company instead of working for someone else. Not that she didn’t love her job. She did. But as far as she was concerned, the more freedom and control she had in all aspects of her life, the better.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said, m’ija?”
Oops. “Yes, Mama,” she fibbed. “I’m sorry. I’m doing a million things at once.”
“You should slow down, honey. Take a breath.”
“No time.” She flicked her wrist over and checked the sleek black face of the Saint Honoré watch she’d splurged on during her last vacation—a solo trip to Paris last summer. Had it really been almost a year since she’d had a break? “My meeting starts in—ugh! Too soon. I need to go over the agenda one more time.” A subtle hint. She waited. Unfortunately Mama didn’t pick up on it. Erica stifled a sigh. “What was it you were saying?”
“Just wondering why that boss of yours always makes you travel alone. A woman alone. It makes no sense to me.”
Erica couldn’t manage to stifle the sigh a second time, not when faced with this dead horse of a topic her mother insisted upon beating. How many times could they go around about this? “He doesn’t make me travel, Mama. I’ve told you before. I enjoy this part of my career. I like the freedom.”
“Freedom.” Erica heard the inelegant snort across the line, a sure sign her mother was going to launch into the familiar refrain. “Don’t get used to that so-called freedom, baby—”
Erica began to mouth the words along with her mother, words to a speech she’d heard hundreds of times. She even pantomimed the finger wag she was sure her mother had going on the other end of the line.
“Once you marry and have children, your place is at home with them, not—”
“—gallivanting around the globe,” Erica finished, her tone droll. The sixty-some-odd-mile drive from Santa Fe to Las Vegas, New Mexico didn’t count as globe-trotting in most people’s books, but Susana Gonçalves’s book told another story altogether. If she could keep her children within the city limits of Santa Fe until she ascended to the pearly gates, her life would be considered a success.
“Exactly,” the older woman said. “A husband and children will nip all this travel in the bud, so no sense getting accustomed to it. That’s all.”
Annoyance pricked at the calm reserve Erica tried so hard to cultivate prior to meeting with colleagues. She took a moment to line up the dry-erase markers in front of the whiteboard and straighten the projector screen. And breathe.
“Did you hear me?”
“Oh yeah, I heard you.” The cell phone slipped from its precarious shoulder clutch, but Erica caught it in midair and held it back to her ear. “Which is exactly why a husband and children aren’t in my future, Mother, a fact you well know.”
“Oh, honey, you talk, but—”
“Are you listening to me?” Erica pronounced each word with crisp, controlled clarity. “Do you ever hear what I’m saying?”
“I just don’t want you to give up hope.”
A fireball of frustration ignited in Erica’s chest. Hot blood pounded in her ears. “Hope! Hope?” She smacked her palm to her forehead, all attempts to stay calm and cool rendered instantly futile. “Listen to yourself, Mama. Why does it always come back to this? What you fail to acknowledge is that some women have no desire to fulfill the roles of wife and mother, and your daughter is one of those women.”
“But, it’s important, honey, and I worry—”
“Why is it so damn important? I take perfectly good care of myself. You always seem to ‘worry’ just when I need to be focused before an important presentation or meeting.” She lowered her voice to a rasp, glancing at the door to make sure no one had showed up early to catch her in mid-rant. She had a business reputation to uphold, after all. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d almost think you were trying to sabotage my career.”
“Don’t be silly. You do know me better.”
True. But, still. Erica closed her eyes and counted to ten in English, then in Spanish. “Mama, listen to me. Six very important words. I don’t want marriage and family. I have no desire to raise human beings, and there’s nothing wrong with admitting that. I can’t even keep plants alive. Not to mention—do you remember what happened to my hamster, Morton?”
“Hamsters don’t live forever. You were only twelve.”
“Old enough to know better.”
“Hmph.”
Erica sighed. “I am simply not suited to your role. You need to accept the facts.”
“You can learn.”
“Sure, if I wanted to. The point is, I don’t want to.” She clenched her fist against her chest with fervor, though her mother couldn’t see her. “I love my career and my independence, and I love to travel. Alone. I want my life exactly the way it is. Why can’t you respect that?”
Susana uttered an unhappy sound. “Was it so bad, Erica? Growing up with a full-time mother in the home? So bad that the very thought of walking in your mother’s footsteps makes you speak to her with such disrespect?”
“I’m—” Erica bit her lip as defeat weighed heavily on her shoulders. She furrowed her fingers slowly through her hair and willed the bite from her tone. “I don’t mean to disrespect you, Mama. You know that. And, of course I don’t regret growing up in a traditional family. I loved having you there.” She struggled for words. How could she explain? “But living that way, putting the family first, was your choice, right?”
“Of course.”
As much as Erica doubted the veracity of her mother’s answer, she nevertheless went with it. “Well, all I’m asking for is my choice, as well. I am walking in your footsteps, Mama,” Erica said, feeling like a liar. In truth, her mother gave up too much of herself for the life she led. Erica was trying to avoid her mother’s footsteps—at least those she took after marriage. “Can’t you see?” She paused, hoping this time it would sink in. “I’m trying to live the life of my choosing. That’s all. Just like you did. My choice is simply different from yours.”
“Don’t you want love, m’ija?”
Erica eased out a breath. Sure, it would be great to have the love of a lifetime yadda, yadda, yadda. Who wouldn’t want that? Unfortunately, that type of love was an empty Hollywood concept. Real love came with strings and ties and required sacrifices she wasn’t willing to make. Real love grabbed you and took up camp in your world, like an occupying force. Real love twisted your life around and left you with the one thing she absolutely refused to have: regrets.
So, she wouldn’t experience marital love in her life, but that didn’t matter to her. She’d find companionship and sex along the way, with men who wouldn’t compromise her goals, men with their own goals, and she’d have her independence. Not a whole lot sounded better than that.
“I love my career,” she said, finally, knowing she could never adequately explain it to her mother. “That’s enough.”
Silence hung between them like a tug-of-war rope. Erica was tired of all the yanking and balancing. “But I really have to go. The artisans will be here soon and I want to be composed.”
“You’re always composed, little one. Too composed for your own good.” Mama laughed, but sounded tired. “You’re a regular Mona Lisa, don’t you know that?”
“Ha.” A grudging smile twitched Erica’s mouth.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, m’ija.”
“You didn’t,” Erica lied, to keep the peace. “Look, I’ll call you tonight. Okay?” She really did love her mother.
“Okay. Is your hotel room safe?”
Erica rolled her eyes. No, she didn’t know any better, so she’d taken a room in the local crack house. “Of course, Mama. It’s a small town, remember? Only sixty miles from home. I’m fine. The hotel is beautiful. Nothing to worry about.”
“So you claim. The optimism of youth.” Another unsettled sigh came through the line. “Well, then, I guess there’s nothing else for me to say.”
“Okay, then.” Erica rolled her hand. Get to the goodbye. C’mon, Mama, please.
“Good luck with your meeting. Be careful, and use the dead bolt and the chain when you’re in the room.”
“Always do,” Erica sang, in an overly patient voice.
“And keep your eyes out for available men,” Susana said in a rush. “Be open-minded. That’s all I’m saying. Life is all about options, baby.”
“Mama!”
“Bueno, bye.”
The abrupt disconnection clicked in Erica’s ear, and she pulled the phone away and stared at it a moment, incredulous, before shaking her head and snapping the flip-front down. Her mother would never stop trying to marry her off, no matter how many times Erica tried to explain her dreams and goals. A pity her mother expended so much energy on a lost cause.
It wasn’t that Erica didn’t like men. She did. She just didn’t want to be subservient to one, as her mother had been to her father. Susana Gonçalves might claim she’d been fulfilled by feeding children, washing clothes and putting everyone else’s needs before her own all these years, but she had been a promising folk guitarist in her youth, on the fast track to giving Joan Baez a little healthy competition.
Then she’d met Erica’s father, and the rest was history. Moises Gonçalves had been raised a kind but strictly traditional man, and into the attic went his wife’s guitar. No time for “frivolity” with babies on the way and a husband to tend, Erica supposed. What a shame.
Call her a skeptic, but Erica refused to believe her mother didn’t have regrets about leaving that musical dream behind. As for herself, she didn’t plan to have a single regret. No way would she give up her identity, her life, her goals and dreams for a band around her finger and the “opportunity” to serve a man all her life. No way in hell. Nothing Mama could say or do would ever change her mind.
“So, what I’m looking for are some really innovative ideas of how you’d like to represent your town in your particular medium,” she told the gathered artisans, her voice composed, her look professional, her manner that of complete control. “The sky’s the limit here, folks. I want to push the envelope and really get New Mexico into the news. This is the first Cultural Arts Festival of this type for our state. Let’s make history.” She smiled with confidence. “Ideas?”
The event planner sent down by some large company in Santa Fe crossed her arms and leaned one toned but still shapely hip against the edge of the front table. Her head tilted slightly forward and to the side, sending the razor-perfect ends of her straight black hair brushing across her shoulder to dance against her cheek like a sheet of satin.
Tomás Garza sat back in his chair and studied her. Erica Gonçalves. He hated to admit it, but she couldn’t be more perfect if he’d conjured her up from his most fervent, most hidden fantasies. Organized, take-charge, encouraging and yet still approachable.
Hope wouldn’t feel threatened—an important consideration.
His jaw tightened, but he pushed aside his inner resistance and refocused on the lady at the front of the room, trying to read her, to soak her in. He needed to get a handle on her before he approached with his proposition. With only five months left, he couldn’t afford any more false starts or setbacks.
He listened while the sculptor representing Albuquerque suggested a Michelangelo-size idea to represent his city—a mixed-media sculpture that would suspend from the rafters of the event hall. A false sky, if you would, filled with faux hot-air balloons to represent the renowned Balloon Fiesta held in Albuquerque each October. An excited murmur rippled through the room as the artist and the planner discussed logistics for a work of this scope. Soon, others began offering their ideas, all praised and efficiently cataloged by Ms. Gonçalves with quick taps of her fingers on the laptop keyboard.
The tone of the meeting was electric, a creative thunderstorm, led by a woman who knew just what to say and do to make things happen. Tomás felt supercharged, both by the atmosphere and the fact that he may have just stumbled on a solution to his dilemma in the form of a petite, fast-track business dynamo named Erica.
The city representatives—specially selected artists, all of them—kept the flow of ideas rushing forth until only a few towns remained—his included. Without warning, the lady he’d been studying turned her dark-eyed gaze on him.
He straightened in his chair—a holdover habit from his less-than-stellar high school days, he supposed, when hearing his name meant he’d been busted for screwing around.
“Mr. Garza? Do you have any ideas for how to incorporate Las Vegas into your piece?” She smiled.
He relaxed his expression, but a flare of inexplicable self-preservation ignited inside him. Lifting one ankle to rest atop the opposite knee and smoothing his palms together, he took his time working his idea into words. Luckily, he had given this some thought, and he considered himself reasonably articulate, even paying only half attention. “Yes. I’d like to craft piñatas to replicate some of our city’s historic buildings, for an interesting twist. An amalgam of Mexican craft work with New Mexican culture. And definitely representative of Vegas.”
Her gaze brightened, and Tomás caught several appreciative nods from the other artists around the room in his peripheral vision. That pleased him. Some artists dismissed piñata making—his family’s artistic heritage—as a child’s craft rather than the endangered art it truly was. He worked hard to overcome the misconception, creating piñatas people wanted to display as well as those for children to break open at birthday parties. The reaction from his peers gathered here today seemed encouraging. He looked to the lady and raised one eyebrow in question.
“Fabulous,” Ms. Gonçalves said. The distant look in her eyes told him that sharp mind of hers was already three steps ahead in the planning. “Really different.”
“Gracias.” He warmed beneath her praise.
“How many houses were you thinking of incorporating?”
“One to represent each of our historic districts. Seven total. They’ll need to be big to capture detail. I don’t want to overdo it.”
“No, that’s perfect. You’re right.”
“Great.”
“Perhaps we can suspend them low over a map or photo of the town,” she said, swirling her hands out in front of her as though she had the full picture in her mind, “approximately near the locations of the districts they represent.”
He shrugged. “Works for me.”
A raised hand caught their attention, and they both turned toward a dazzling, dark-haired muralist from Angel Fire who sat near the far wall.
“I have a cartographer friend who’d jump on this project if the budget allows enough to pay him,” offered Monét Montoya, bangle bracelets tinkling as she gestured. “He’s worth it. His maps aren’t just maps, they’re art.”
Erica nodded. “Great. Get with me after the meeting and I’ll take down his information.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “If that’s all right with you, Mr. Garza? It is your project, after all.”
He appreciated the consideration. “Fine.”
“Good, then.” She typed the idea into her laptop with finality, and moments later it appeared on the projector screen:
Las Vegas: Display of seven piñatas in the form of historic buildings suspended above an art map of the city.
“Thank you, Mr. Garza.” Erica smiled at him, and his stomach tightened with a distant emotion he vaguely recognized as lust. His wariness increased. Granted, she was hot. Any red-blooded man could see that. But he had no intention of bringing a strange woman into his life—or his daughter’s life—lust or no. As Bob Marley so wisely crooned, “no woman, no cry.” He and Hope had learned their lesson on that account long ago.
“My pleasure.” He managed to smile with his mouth, but his eyes failed to cooperate. Not wanting to appear surly, he softened what he was sure had been a cold expression with a wink. To his surprise, her eyes widened slowly before she averted her gaze and cleared her throat. Interesting. When she raised her face to the crowd, Tomás noticed a flush to her chest in the V of her blouse, which belied the calm, cool exterior. He looked away, denying his own awareness. Awareness that had no place in this meeting room, or in his life.
“Okay, let’s move on.”
Please do, he thought, with palpable relief.
He watched Erica toss her hair and focus on another lucky artisan in the room. Grateful that her disconcerting attention had shifted elsewhere, Tomás tuned out a bit while the rest of the towns weighed in. He sat back to ruminate further about the best way to approach Erica Gonçalves with his proposition.
The job probably wasn’t as prestigious as her regular gigs, but he needed her, much as he hated to admit it. She could pull this off without a hitch, and he…well, he wasn’t so sure he could pull it off at all on his own.
The very thought of not being capable, of knowing he needed to seek help, brought self-disgust bubbling up in his throat. He and Hope had never needed help from anyone before. He hated admitting that he didn’t have every aspect of his busy life under control. Lately though, where his little girl was concerned, he didn’t seem to have a damn thing under control, and he’d do just about anything to make it better.
Part of it was her age, he knew. Kids went wacky during the middle-school years. Part of it was hormones, something he didn’t want to think about in relation to his baby girl. He needed to accept the fact that Hope wasn’t a baby anymore, however, and that sometimes young ladies acted…mysterious. Detached. More confusing the closer they came to womanhood—the nature of the beast. He pictured her and smiled with equal parts love, fatherly concern and sympathy, remembering age fourteen only too well. It wasn’t so many years since he’d been there, considering he’d been little more than a child himself when Hope had come along.
But he wasn’t the child anymore, he was the parent, and it was his responsibility to fix things, to make life perfect for his daughter. All that mattered was her happiness, and, much as he hated to admit it, the lady standing at the front of the small conference room could be the answer to his prayers. He wouldn’t allow stubborn pride to keep him from reaching out to her. No. He’d buck up and solicit her help, no matter how galling it was to admit his parental shortcomings. He’d do anything for Hope, even go into debt, even swallow his own foolish pride.
Calmer, more determined, he took in a breath and tracked Ms. Gonçalves’s smooth, efficient movements with his eyes, feeling better by the moment. If anyone could pull this off, she could. Everything would work out, and his daughter would magically revert back into the adoring, open, happy girl she had once been.
Pride swallowed. Help accepted.
Problem solved. Balance restored.
Hope and Daddy against the world once again.

Chapter Two
The meeting had gone well. Erica smiled to herself as she organized her notes. Creating a statewide cultural arts festival out of thin air and big dreams was a monstrous undertaking, but luckily the artisans she’d brought on board were not only talented but creative and enthusiastic, as well. The firm had a full team of event planners working on the festival, but the art included was the most important part, and Erica was in charge of finding appropriate artisans. She felt good about it.
If the sculptor from Albuquerque could pull off his idea, if he got the scale right—and certainly he would—the whole festival would feel as if it were taking place outside, beneath New Mexico’s blue skies and a rainbow of hot-air balloons. The undertaking was so huge, so fresh, it bordered on arrogant. She loved it. They’d make history…not to mention national news, which suited her five-year plan perfectly. She’d take all the help she could get making a name for herself in this competitive business. That out-of-the-box creativity was exactly what Erica had hoped for when she called this final planning meeting. Now that all the decisions had been made, they could all focus on pulling this beast together.
A knock sounded on the conference-room door, yanking Erica out of her thoughts. She glanced up and frowned, then checked her watch as she crossed the room, certain that she had another half hour at least before she needed to vacate the meeting space.
At the door, she hesitated, her mother’s grave warnings bubbling up from somewhere in her subconscious. She smiled at the absurdity, but nonetheless asked, “Who is it?” before opening the door. She hoped the effort would win her a few respect-your-mother points in heaven.
“Tomás Garza,” came the deep but gentle voice from the other side of the door.
The piñatero? Her heart revved, remembering her surprise when she first saw him at the meeting. When she’d sent a letter requesting his participation in the festival, she had expected him to be an old, paunchy man. How wrong her preconceived notions had been.
He was a quiet, watchful man, but certainly not old. And not even close to paunchy. She’d guess him to be in his early thirties, with long dark hair he wore pulled back into an utilitarian ponytail. It managed to look ultramasculine and enticingly rebellious at the same time.
She’d found him attractive, sure. But he’d stuck in her mind mostly because he’d been so…still. Utterly still, like an animal. Alert, aware, taking it all in, and ready to bolt at any moment. She found it disconcerting. Maybe she was crazy, but she’d gotten the feeling that Tomás had watched her every move during the meeting. His body motionless, deceptively casual. Those unusual brown eyes tracking her like prey.
She shivered, then pushed the ridiculous emotions aside and pulled open the door. “Mr. Garza,” she said, by way of a greeting. “Did you forget something?” His eyes glowed almost, and she suddenly realized they reminded her of those polished tiger’s eye stones sold in a lot of the tourist shops.
“Please call me Tomás.”
“Tomás, then.” She splayed a hand on her chest. “And I’m Erica.”
He nodded. “I didn’t forget anything. I wondered if you might have a few minutes to talk.”
“I have a little less than thirty minutes before the hotel kicks me out of the room, but come on in.” She stepped back, motioning for him to enter. “Is this about the festival?”
He smoothed his palms together, a vaguely hungry look in his eyes. “Actually, I came to speak to you about a different matter. A more…personal matter.”
Personal? All of a sudden, Erica recalled the wink he’d so casually tossed her during the meeting. At the time, she prayed no one else had seen it. Now, she stiffened, imagining just what this personal matter of his involved. Why did this crap seem to happen to her on almost every job? She dressed professionally, didn’t exude flirtatious vibes, as far as she knew. She simply wanted to be taken seriously in her career, not treated like fresh meat everywhere she went. Was that too much to ask? She hated to admit to herself how disappointed she was to learn that the quiet piñatero was just another in a long line of men who viewed the work arena as one big singles bar.
Her chin lifted. “Mr. Garza—”
He cocked his head, friendly curiosity in his eyes. “I thought we’d moved on to first names?”
She sighed. “Tomás, then. Before you say anything further, I’d like to make it perfectly clear that I don’t date business associates. Ever.”
His eyes widened, then crinkled with amusement. “You think I’m hitting on you?” He paused a moment, then added, mostly to himself, “Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you, the way I phrased it.” His apologetic gaze met hers. “Ah…I’m almost flattered, Erica. But it’s not that kind of personal matter.” He held up his hands, palms forward, in a gesture of surrender. “I would never be so presumptuous. Sorry if I gave you that impression.”
Oh, God. Mortification oozed from her brain through her body like hot lava, miring her in its fiery thickness. The words were out there. She couldn’t snatch them back. She had to simply save face as best she could. “I, uh, owe you an apology, then. Clearly. It’s just that sometimes—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, holding up a hand. “I understand. I’m sure men come on to you all the time.”
“Not…all the time.” Ugh, she could perish.
“Well.” His eyes smiled, but his mouth managed to remain serious and sincere. “Rest assured, me hitting on you is one thing you’ll never have to worry about, Erica. Promise.”
Never? Realization cut through her mind, and with it came a deeper gouge of humiliation. God, it just kept getting better, didn’t it? Why hadn’t she paid closer attention? She’d been too damn busy noticing how unexpectedly young and attractive the piñatero was to realize—
How uncharacteristically narrow-minded of her.
She worked with people in the arts community all the time, she should know better than to assume. Clearly, Tomás Garza was gay, and here she’d accused him of—oh, Lord. She really did want to shrivel up and die. She knew no other way to recover from this social gaffe other than just…sucking it up and admitting she’d acted like an ass.
“I’ve come to request your help. Or your services, to be more specific,” Tomás continued, clearly not as bothered by what had transpired as she. “A business proposition.”
“Ah. Business.” She pushed out a humorless, self-deprecating laugh, wishing she’d fall through the floor, the earth, and all the way to China. “Okay. Well, give me a minute to regain my composure. I’m thoroughly embarrassed.” She twisted her mouth to the side and met his gaze directly. “Please accept my apology for the unfair assumption, Tomás. You must think I’m terribly arrogant.”
“Absolutely not.” Tomás laughed, but the sound was kind. He didn’t seem the type to derive pleasure from other people’s humiliation. “I think you’re a woman who probably puts up with men’s unwanted attentions all the time. I understand.”
Her humiliation waned, thanks to his kindness. “Still, to automatically assume…well. I just hope this won’t affect our working relationship. Believe me—” she laid a palm on his forearm, then lowered her tone to an intimate level hoping he’d recognize her sincerity “—I work with a lot of gay men, and consider many of them my closest friends. This is completely not an issue for me.”
Startled confusion clouded his eyes for a moment, then he smiled widely. She hadn’t noticed that dimple before.
Don’t notice it now, dummy. He plays for the other team!
“Look, ah…don’t worry about it.” Laughter laced his words. “I should’ve made myself more clear. Obviously. But, what’s done is done.” He clapped his palms together. “What do you say we start over from scratch?”
“Sounds like a fabulous idea.” She gestured behind her, relieved to have made it through the flaming hoop relatively unscathed. “I hope you don’t mind if I pack up while we talk.”
“Not at all. In fact, I’ll help.”
“Thanks.” He set about stacking chairs while Erica disconnected her computer and placed the components in the leather carrying case. “Tell me more about this proposition.”
He glanced up, then held her gaze. “I’d like to hire you for a special project. I need your expertise.”
Erica cocked her head to the side. “What’s up?”
“My daughter, Hope—she’s fourteen. Fifteen in—” he checked his watch “—just about six months.”
Daughter? Erica blinked, trying to grasp this newest bit of information and assimilate it into Tomás’s swiftly metamorphosing profile in her brain. From paunchy old man to sexy young man to gay man to father of a teenager—all in the span of a couple minutes. How much was one woman expected to take?
“I’d like to celebrate it during the summer, though, which means I have about five months to plan one heck of an extravaganza to celebrate her quince años,” he went on. “One perfect night for a very special girl turning fifteen. It’s been a dream of mine ever since she was born to make it extra special for her. There’s only one problem.”
She forced her vocal cords to form words. “W-what’s that?”
“I have no clue how to plan a quinceañera, and my little bundle of teenage hormones isn’t giving me much direction.” His mouth took on a rueful quirk.
Erica stared at him for a moment while her mind tried to catch up. She ran both hands through her hair. She needed more information, needed to pull herself together, needed…a drink.
“Well? What do you say?”
He wanted an answer now? She laughed, a small nervous sound. “Hold on. To be frank, I’m still trying to get over my shock that you have a daughter. And one that old. Fifteen?”
“Almost.”
She shook her head, marveling. “And here I thought you were about my age.”
His body stilled. He stood motionless before her, looking as he had during the meeting…wary, watchful. “I’m thirty-one,” he said, the words devoid of emotion.
“Ah. So you are about my age. Three years older, in any case.” Erica did the math. Interesting. “Your daughter was—”
“Not a mistake,” he said, his warning tone putting her on instant alert. His tiger’s-eye gaze hardened.
She blinked in surprise. “No, I…I wasn’t going to—I didn’t mean it that way.” Although she couldn’t imagine a seventeen-year-old boy planning to father a child. What else could it have been but a mistake?
Almost as if he’d read her thoughts, he added, “I had her too young. True. That’s my fault, not hers.”
“Of course not. I never…” She stepped closer, hating this awkward turn in what should’ve been an innocuous business conversation. She’d felt off-kilter since the moment he walked in, and things kept spiraling ever downward. She used to think her communication skills were a strong asset. Ha. “If I’ve offended you, I’m sorry.”
He studied her a moment, then his shoulders loosened. It seemed it was his turn to experience some embarrassment. “No. My fault. I’m…a little defensive where Hope is concerned. Undeservedly so in this instance, I fear. I’m sorry.”
Erica shook her head and released a little huff. “We seem to be apologizing a lot here.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s just stop then. Clearly neither of us intends to offend the other.”
“Agreed.”
“So, Hope.” Erica brushed her hair off her shoulder and went back to packing up her materials. “That’s her name?”
“Yes. Hope Genavieve Garza.”
“Lovely.”
He grinned. “Thank you. Picked it myself.”
She returned his smile, but knew she needed to get the conversation back to its core. “About Hope’s quinceañera.” She sighed, reluctant to take the job, but equally hesitant to turn him down flat. He seemed like such a nice man, a concerned father. She admired him for that. “I don’t accept that kind of assignment, I’m afraid. Weddings, sure. Parties, meetings, festivals. But quinceañeras involve all kinds of traditions I know nothing about.” She shrugged. “My family has been in this part of the country for generations. We don’t celebrate any Mexican holidays or traditions.”
“My grandmother can help you. She lives with us.”
“Maybe she should be the one to plan it.”
He shook his head. “She’s in her late seventies, Erica, and she has multiple sclerosis. With the fatigue and pain, it’s all she can do to make it through some days.”
Erica didn’t know what to say, so she simply nodded. Tomás Garza certainly had a full plate. She studied him, chewing on her bottom lip. Something told her to tread lightly with her next question. She knew it would come off sounding like one of those lame, thinly veiled come-ons if she wasn’t careful. “Doesn’t Hope’s mother want to plan the event?”
A tension-buzzed pause stretched between them. “No.” Something in his shuttered expression warned her not to probe any deeper. Erica sighed. “Listen, I appreciate the offer. But I am up to my ears with the festival, not to mention several weddings over the next few months. Plus…the truth is, I’ve never planned a children’s event.”
Undeterred. “Doesn’t mean you couldn’t.”
“No, but—”
“Besides, she’s a young woman, not a child anymore, much to my chagrin.” Tomás cringed and raised his eyes heavenward.
Erica laughed softly at his morose tone. “I’m sure she’s an amazing young lady. That doesn’t change the fact that I don’t plan young people’s events, or that I’m overbooked.”
He moved closer, body taut, gaze intent. “I’ve seen you in action, Erica. Busy or not, I know you could pull this off, or I wouldn’t have asked.” He paused, watching her.
She pressed her lips together, saying nothing.
“I can pay you.”
Doubtful. “I’m expensive, Tomás.” She cocked her head apologetically. “Far too pricey for a girl’s party, anyway.”
“Try me. Name your price.”
Aha, so this was her out. The man was an artist, a single parent who also cared for an elderly grandmother with health concerns. Once she quoted him her exorbitant fee schedule, he’d swiftly realize she wasn’t worth it, and she’d be off the hook. Calculating her usual charges for planning a large wedding, and throwing in a mental surcharge because she’d be forced to work with teenagers, she arrived at a sum.
Erica crossed her arms and leveled him with a cool, all-business stare. “I would have to work Hope in between my other responsibilities. Evenings, weekends. Sporadically. You might even have to bring her to Santa Fe a few times.”
“No problem.”
“Five thousand dollars.” She let that sink in. “Plus all expenses, including my travel.”
He blinked once but didn’t balk. She watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall slowly. “Done.”
She frowned, arms dropping to her sides. “Excuse me?”
“I said, that’s fine. Five thou plus expenses. You’re hired.” He offered his hand for her to shake.
Instead, she clasped her own together and implored him to be reasonable. “Tomás, do you realize how much this party is going to end up costing you? For one evening’s entertainment? What about…her college tuition? What about—?”
“Let me worry about that.”
She felt trapped, panicked by the thought of what she might have gotten herself into. She couldn’t afford to take on another responsibility, and she didn’t want to spend the next four months dealing with adolescent angst. Her heart raced as she struggled to come up with alternatives. “But…you don’t need someone with my qualifications to plan this. This is a family event.”
“So’s a wedding. You plan those.”
“B-but…I’m a stranger.”
“An event planner,” he corrected. “Which is why I’ve come to you.”
“What about asking family? An aunt, or—?”
“No aunts.”
“Or…or a friend, or—”
“Erica—” he took her hand between both of his “—all I have wanted for the past fourteen years is to make my daughter feel special. Cherished. Can you understand that?”
“Sure, but—”
“I want memories of this night to resonate in her soul for the rest of her life.” His eyes searched her face. “You’re a professional. From you, I’ll get perfection. As close as possible, at least.”
She couldn’t argue that. In fact, he’d managed to shoot down her arguments almost quicker than she could launch them. She bit her bottom lip.
“I said I’d pay your five-thousand-dollar fee. What’s the problem?”
Cornered. Erica hung her head and thought about it logically. What was the problem? She’d gambled naming that fee, and he’d called her bluff. The only stand-up response was to accept the assignment, especially considering the man hadn’t a single qualm about paying. Five thousand dollars would be a great boost to her savings. She’d be several steps closer to striking out on her own. How hard could it be, after all, to plan a quinceañera? She peered at the man standing before her, so still, anticipating agreement, she could tell. She had to give him credit for sticking to his goals.
What the hell, it was his money, and if he wanted to hand it over, she should be willing to take it. She could easily earn five thousand dollars planning a wedding, so she shouldn’t suffer a moment of guilt for demanding the same for this job. A quinceañera was nearly as elaborate, and her time was at a premium. Feeling better about it, she took his hand. “Okay, Tomás. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
He released a breath and clasped her hand between his. “Thank you. So much. You won’t regret this, Erica.”
She laughed. “Remind me of that when I’m going nuts trying to plan this festival, all the weddings, and Hope’s party.”
“Can I…” he swallowed “…do you need the money up front?”
“No. I generally take payment the night of the event.” She didn’t miss his look of relief. The guilt tried to resurface, but she pushed it away. The man had agreed to pay. “I’ll need your approval for expenses, though. Those I’ll bill as they occur.”
“No problem. And listen.” His tone lowered to a gentle, almost conspiratorial purr. “Go wild. If I have to assume a little debt for this thing, I’m okay with that. Just make it—”
“Perfect?”
He smiled. “Too much to ask?”
“Well, it’s a tall order.” She wish he’d keep those off-limits dimples to himself. Gay man or not, they made her stomach flop. “But I’ll do my best for your daughter, Tomás.”
“That’s all I’ve ever tried to do. I wouldn’t ask more from you,” he said, his words soft and…slightly troubled?
They spent the next few moments exchanging phone and fax numbers, addresses and e-mail information—conduits to modern business function.
Feeling calmer, or at least more resigned, Erica extracted her PalmPilot from her briefcase. “I’d like to meet Hope as soon as possible.” She consulted her planning calendar. “I’ll be heading to Santa Fe tomorrow morning, but I’ll be back next week. Monday. I’ve actually rented a place here just until the festival is over.”
“You’ll be spending that much time here?”
“I’ll be back and forth, but I do want to keep a close eye on the site.” She shrugged. “Short-term rental was cheaper than a hotel, and more convenient.”
“Well, that’s great. It will be nice having you close.”
Her stomach tightened, and she chose to ignore the comment. “What works for you, dinnerwise?”
He seemed to take her lead, turning all business. “Monday?”
She shook her head. “Actually, that’s my moving day, so probably not. Tuesday?”
“Hope has a softball game that evening. Wednesday?” he offered. “Dinner. At our house, so Ruby can meet you, too.”
Erica glanced up sharply. “Ruby?”
“My grandmother.” He grinned. “She says it makes her feel younger to be called by her first name, so we humor her.”
“Sounds like my kind of woman.” Erica looked forward to meeting her. “Wednesday looks clear.” She glanced at the business card he’d given her, which listed an address in Rociada, AKA out in the boonies.
He seemed to read her mind. Again. “If you’d like, I can pick you up.”
Not good. She always preferred to have her own transportation at hand, her own escape hatch, if you will. “Thanks, but I’ll drive. Just give me good, clear directions.”
“No problem. Six too early? We’re more than happy to work our dinner hour around you.”
She smiled genuinely at his consideration, thinking how nice it would be to know someone in town. And now that she knew his preferences, it would be easier to kick this unexpected and futile attraction she felt. “Six it is. Thank you.”
“Bueno. Come hungry. I’m a whiz in the kitchen.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
Tomás headed for the door but stopped with his hand on the knob. He turned. “Erica? There is, ah, one other thing you should probably know.”
Uh-oh. His words put her on instant alert. “Yes?”
His mouth spread into a slow smile, almost as though he knew the effect it had on her stomach, almost as though he liked knowing it. “You misunderstood me earlier,” he drawled, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
“Oh? How so?”
“I’m…not gay. Not even a little bit.”

Chapter Three
Tomás’s grandmother, Ruby, kept him company, sipping her nightly cup of green tea, while he washed up the dinner dishes and filled her in on his day just the way she expected him to—starting at the beginning and going straight through until the end. He’d just gotten around to explaining about the business arrangement he’d reached with Erica.
Lamplight mellowed the mango-colored walls to a peachy gold, and the air remained redolent with the smells of chicken and green chile. His daughter was, as usual, cloistered in front of the computer in her room, working on homework—he hoped. She had finals in a few weeks and was a conscientious student. In any case, he had every parental control known to man on the computers in this house, so he didn’t harbor many chat-room nightmares about Hope. He still wished he knew a little more about how she spent her time on that darn thing sometimes.
“So, anyway, she thought I was gay,” Tomás told Ruby, with a rueful smile.
“The event planner?”
“Yup.”
For a moment, his grandmother just grinned. “Well, did she mean happy or homosexual?” She knew full well which.
Tomás snorted.
Ruby sipped, swallowed, then shook her head. “I don’t know what possessed people to change the meaning of a perfectly acceptable word,” she mused, mostly to herself. “It’s confusing for everyone, and homosexual is as serviceable a term as any.”
“You’re missing the point, Rube. A good-looking, single, twenty-eight-year-old woman thought I was—”
“You don’t date. What’s she supposed to think? And I didn’t miss the point, I was just thinking aloud.”
“How would she know I don’t date? Today was the first time I’ve ever seen her in person.”
“It’s the vibe, sonny.” She grouped the fingertips on one hand together and shook them. “You give off a vibe.”
He pondered his reflection in the window over the sink. “Maybe I need a new style. Or a tattoo. Something manly, like a power tool.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. What do you care if she thinks you’re homosexual anyway?”
“I…I don’t.” He wasn’t truly bothered by Erica’s mistake, but it was fun to joke about it. If he’d given it more thought, allowing her to believe he actually was gay might’ve been smart. At least there wouldn’t have been questions. Any time she sensed him watching her or felt his attraction, the attraction he couldn’t seem to overcome, she’d have written it off as her imagination. But, for whatever god-awful reason, he simply hadn’t been able to walk out of that room without making his sexual orientation very clear to her.
“She’s a looker, this woman?”
Sometimes Tomás wondered if Ruby could read his mind. His maternal line had always been a little bit psychic. “Yeah. And a real go-getter.” He tossed a sharp look at Ruby over his shoulder. “She’s also hired help. Period. I hired her for what she could do for Hope, not what you might be thinking I want her to do for me.”
“That would be the day,” Ruby scoffed. “It’s no wonder you have this reputation as a flamboyant homosexual.”
“Flam—” Tomás twisted around to look at his grandmother, who he knew was simply goading him. She always did love a good debate. “You know how I feel about bringing another woman into Hope’s life.”
“Indeed. How could I forget?” His grandmother sighed, running fingers through her artificially magentaed locks.
“Are you saying you disagree with the way I’m raising Hope?”
“Ay-yay-yay, and they say women are bad.” Ruby gazed heavenward, as though pleading mercy. “Men are tiring. Tiresome, too. Here.” She held out her mug. Tomás took it, slipping it beneath the bubbly surface of the sink water. He knew when a subject had been dropped by his grandmother. He also knew she never, ever intruded on his parenting. He appreciated it most of the time. Every now and then, he could have used a dose of wisdom. He was sure his mother would have given advice periodically, were she still alive. Then again, she had been very much Ruby’s daughter.
Tomás drained the sink water, hung the dishrag over the faucet and turned to face Ruby. She looked great, vibrant as ever. He knew only too well how deceptive MS could be, though.
“How are you feeling?” He didn’t ask often, and only offhand when he found he couldn’t stop himself. His grandmother was matter-of-fact about her condition and didn’t want nor tolerate mollycoddling. A lot of people were worse off, she never failed to remind him. Save your moonfaced sympathy for them, she’d say. I have a life to live and you’re on my last good nerve.
“Tired,” was her only response. She waved vaguely toward the small glass vial resting atop the counter. Its cap had been punctured by a hypodermic needle, and the whole mess had to sit until the medication had liquified within the saline. “Let’s get that shot over with so I can go to bed. It’s been sitting long enough, I think.”
Tomás quickly dried his hands, then rolled the small vial between his palms smoothly, so as not to bubble the mixture. Ruby, meanwhile, fished in her medication dispenser and popped a pain pill, dry.
“How do you think Hope’s going to feel about it?” No need to elaborate—Ruby knew what he meant.
“You should ask her.”
“Come on, Rube. I want your input.”
“Hope will be fine,” she said patiently, in a tone meant to convey her opinion that he spent far too much time worrying about Hope for no good reason.
He drew up a syringeful of Copaxone, then checked the chart they kept on the refrigerator to remind them which injection site to use. “Right arm,” he said, then squatted next to her. She’d already begun to roll up the loose sleeve of her blouse. They’d both grown so used to the intricate routine of these shots, Tomás found it hard to believe he’d ever been nervous to give them.
Alcohol swab, one swift jab, pause, then depress the syringe. Tomás administered the medication, removed the needle, then slipped it into a sharps disposal box mounted in an out-of-sight spot on the wall next to the refrigerator. He handed Ruby a Band-Aid. While she put it on, he crossed to the freezer to retrieve an ice-pack. The first half hour after each injection burned like a snakebite, according to Ruby.
“What I mean is, do you think she’ll be disappointed that a stranger is helping her plan this instead of her father?”
Ruby rolled her eyes. “For goodness’ sake, sonny. I think she’ll be overjoyed to shop for clothes with someone of the female persuasion for once, if you want the truth.”
Tomás pursed his lips. He didn’t know how he felt about that. He’d always tried his damnedest to be both parents for Hope, shopping for clothing with her and learning the purposes of all the various pots of makeup, in case she ever wanted to start wearing the stuff—which she didn’t need, mind you. He wasn’t some clumsy, clueless male. He was her father and her mother—had been since she was six weeks old.
He needed to think about this a little longer, come to terms with how he felt about letting a stranger replace him in Hope’s life like that.
“Stop worrying so much,” his grandmother urged, reaching out to pat his arm. “People would think you’re the old woman in this household instead of me. Hope will be fine, like I’ve told you a million times. It’s you I worry about.”
He didn’t need her worry. Hope was his concern. “You’re missing the point, Rube—”
“You always think I’m missing the point,” she said, aiming a gnarled finger at him. She smiled, to soften her words. “Someday you’ll find out it’s been you missing the point all along, m’ijo. But people learn when they’re ready to learn.” She shrugged, unconcerned. “I just hope I’m still around to witness the swan song. Good night.” Without waiting for reciprocation, she deftly maneuvered her wheelchair around the table leg and sped from the room.
Poised to push open his daughter’s bedroom door, Tomás checked himself, paused, and then knocked. He had to constantly remind himself Hope was a young lady now, an adolescent who deserved—and demanded—respect for her privacy.
“Yeah?”
He cracked the door and peered in. From across the room, behind a computer screen, and beneath a purple baseball cap, Hope peered back. He didn’t like her cloistered behind the desk, but she’d patiently explained that the new location of her desk was good feng shui, and he was lucky she didn’t paint her bedroom door red. “Hi, baby.”
“Hi, Dad.”
A ribbon of melancholy twirled around his heart. He missed the days when she’d called him Daddy. She still did occasionally, but only when she was trying to get something from him. Like a puppy, God forbid. “What’s up? Homework?”
She shook her head. “Already done. I’m just surfing.”
A quick jolt of concern struck, but he repressed it. Tomás wanted to give his daughter his trust and the benefit of the doubt. Hope had common sense. “Any interesting sites?” He approached the desk as casually as he could.
In a few keystrokes and button pushes, Hope had the computer off. “No. Just…nothing.”
He raised one eyebrow.
Hope sighed. “I’m not going in chat rooms, if that’s what you’re thinking. Those people are all creeps and idiots.” She smiled, deepening the dimples in her cheeks.
Tomás’s heart swelled. He chuckled at his daughter and tugged the ponytail pulled through the back of her cap, then took a seat on her bed. Why did he feel so nervous? “Have a few minutes to talk to your old dad?”
Hope kicked back, planting her heels on the edge of the desk. “You’re not old, newsflash. But go ahead.”
“You know I’ve been trying to plan your quinceañera, but I haven’t been doing a very good job.”
Hope twisted her mouth to the side, her tone turning almost plaintive. “It’s okay, Dad. I don’t need to have one.”
“Nonsense. You’ll have one. But I’ve hired someone to help us plan it. Help you. I think you’ll like her.”
He watched Hope’s eyes widen before a line—worry? annoyance?—creased her forehead. As quickly as it had come, it disappeared. All of a sudden, her expression went bland. “Okay. Who is she?”
“Just okay?”
She bit her bottom lip a moment, thinking. “Oh, I meant, thank you.”
Tomás sighed, hanging his head for a moment. “I wasn’t looking for gratitude, baby, although I appreciate it. I’m asking—what do you think about that? About having help? And she’s an event planner from Santa Fe.”
Hope shrugged, picking at the remains of the sparkle polish that looked so out of place on her stubby little fingernails. “Oh. It’s fine. Why?”
“I…don’t know.” He waited, but Hope didn’t volunteer further comments. “Okay. So, we’re going to have her over for dinner next Wednesday, so the two of you can meet. So we can start to plan this thing.” He paused for comments that never materialized. Weren’t teenage girls supposed to jabber? You wouldn’t know it from his enigmatic daughter. “You have anything going that night I don’t know about?”
“Nope. Nothing important.” Hope offered a placid smile. “What should we have?”
A low-grade sense of dismay settled in Tomás’s gut, and he didn’t know why. It wasn’t Hope—she was cooperative enough. Then again…maybe that was it. He felt as if she never really talked to him anymore, as if he didn’t know how she truly felt, or what went through that fertile mind of hers. “I’ll worry about the menu. You just be here at six next Wednesday. Deal?”
“Deal.” She giggled.
Tomás watched her a moment, loving her with an intensity that nearly suffocated him, and at the same time feeling as though he hardly knew her at all. But, for no reason. She’d always been a good, obedient daughter. No changes there. Somehow, though, he felt…a distance. And a powerlessness to change it. “Is everything okay?”
She shrugged again. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You’d tell me if something wasn’t okay?”
“Dad!” she moaned. “You’re bugging me. Stop being weird.”
With a tired, put-upon chuckle, Tomás stood. “Bueno. Okay. I’m leaving. God forbid a father should try to have a little conversation with his best girl.”
“I’m immune to your parental guilt trips.”
He turned back and grinned. “Dinner Wednesday at six.”
“I heard you the first hundred times, Dad.” She rolled her eyes and saluted. “Be there or be square.”
He stood and crossed to the door, then turned and studied her for a moment, his back braced against the doorjamb. “I love you, baby.”
Hope dropped her feet to the floor and clicked a few buttons on her keyboard before flashing him a quick smile. “Love you, too, Dad.”
“Don’t stay up late.”
“What do I look like, a vampire?” She bared her teeth.
A perfectly normal exchange, Tomás told himself as he left the room, his soft chuckle feeling a little choked off by the lump in his throat.
Perfectly normal.
So why did he feel so disconnected?

Chapter Four
Rule number one for leaving a good impression with a man: Don’t assume he’s gay within the first ten minutes of your introduction, and if for some ridiculous reason you do, for God’s sake, don’t voice your thoughts.
Sheesh, what a colossal mess she’d created for herself. There wasn’t anything on earth wrong with being gay in her opinion, but experience taught her that straight guys didn’t appreciate being mistaken for gay guys. That’s all. And she’d done it, unabashedly, to probably the hottest man she’d encountered in months. Ugh.
It had been nearly a week, and still Erica couldn’t get past the embarrassing exchange with Tomás. She’d replayed it over and over in her mind all week, cringing inside each time she heard him say, “I’m…not gay. Not even a little bit.”
And now she had to face him again.
A fresh fist of humiliation punched Erica’s middle as she guided her Honda Accord over the rolling hills and twisting curves of the Northern New Mexico back roads en route to Tomás’s house. Soft flamenco-guitar instrumentals drifted out of her stereo speakers, and the scents of sage and May sunshine wafted in through her open window. The scenery in this area was beautiful, but try as she might, she couldn’t concentrate on it. Instead, two distracting questions ran incessantly through her mind: One, how could she have been such a flipping idiot? And two—though she’d never admit having pondered this question—if Tomás was, as he claimed, a healthy, red-blooded heterosexual male, why had he assured her she’d never have to worry about him hitting on her?
Did he find her so unattractive?
Was she the polar opposite of “his type”?
Make no mistake, she knew it was fickle of her to even wonder. She herself claimed to have no interest in a relationship and to never date colleagues or clients. And she didn’t. She really didn’t. But that wasn’t the point. She was human, and female, and when a drop-dead gorgeous, come-to-papa man flat out stated that he had No Interest in Her Whatsoever, well sorry, but give a woman and her stillbruisable ego a chance to wonder why.
The simplest and most palatable answer would be that Tomás was already involved with someone, but Erica just hadn’t gotten that sense from their first encounter. After all, he’d hired her to plan Hope’s party. Had there been an available girlfriend, logic said the woman likely would’ve planned the quinceañera herself. So, no girlfriend, and yet zip, zero, nada attraction. Yeah, she was fickle to the core, but still. She couldn’t deny feeling judged and found lacking.
“Stop being ridiculous!” Erica told herself, smacking the side of her fist on the steering wheel. It didn’t matter what Tomás Garza did or didn’t think about her, and it wasn’t worth the mental energy she’d been wasting on it for an entire week.
Interested, not interested, or full-on disgusted, facts were facts: the sum total of her association with Tomás was (1) his contribution to the Cultural Arts Festival, and (2) the quinceañera she would plan for his daughter, Hope—to the tune of five grand in her business fund. And the sole purpose of this dinner meeting tonight was to meet Hope and discuss preliminary plans. Period. She needn’t obsess about anything else. So she’d taken extra pains with her outfit this evening, with her hair and makeup. Big whoop. She’d merely hoped to try for a second chance at an obviously poor first impression, despite the old adage that claimed no such chance existed.
Sometimes a woman just had to try.
Erica forced her mind on to the business at hand and gave one last glance at the directions Tomás had e-mailed her, hoping she was close. She’d driven so far into the boonies that his directions were now reduced to such landmarks as, “pass the blue-fenced property with a brown-and-white horse and a goat in the pasture, then turn left at the next dirt farm road adjacent to the large piñon tree.” Thank goodness for cell phones or she might never make it, not that it would be such a bad thing….
Yes. Yes, it would be a bad thing. She was a business professional with a reputation to uphold, and this was a business meeting. She straightened her shoulders, tossed her hair. After a weekend of researching quinceañera traditions, she’d actually come up with some fun ideas, and she looked forward to running them by Tomás and his daughter and grandmother. She prayed Hope was an easy child to get along with and could only wish her first encounter with Hope and the grandmother would be better than—
Erica pressed her lips together in a resolute line.
Forget that. She was done thinking about it, done feeling humiliated, done apologizing. The last thing she needed in her life right now was a man, anyway, so the point was so moot it wasn’t even a point. Meet the girl, plan the event and get out of this situation with her sanity and her independence intact—that was the goal. The only goal.
Spying the large piñon tree she’d almost missed, Erica jerked the wheel and made a bouncing turn onto the dirt farm road that would lead her to whatever lay ahead. As the dust cloud cleared, so did her head. Finally. She could survive this. No sweat. Well…not much, anyway.
Hope swung her stocking feet under the table and watched her father from beneath her lashes with a mixture of wonder and amusement. Something was definitely up. He bustled around the kitchen between the oven, the countertop and the bubbling pots atop the stove while she pretended to work on homework at the kitchen table. She was able to work here rather than in her room because tonight they were eating at the dining room table, believe it or not. Needless to say, she wasn’t making much progress on her boring French conjugations. Watching Dad was way more interesting at this point and WAY distracting.
Who was this lady he’d hired to help plan the quinceañera, anyway? Hope hadn’t seen her dad this…spazzed out for a long time, and they never ate at the dining room table unless it was, like, a holiday. Seriously, Thanksgiving, Christmas and their birthdays, period. Never on a regular old Wednesday.
Speaking of holidays—she inhaled, trying to pretend she wasn’t actually sniffing him—was Dad wearing cologne? He smelled like Christmas, since the only time he seemed to wear his Gray Flannel cologne was for Christmas dinner each year. He usually just smelled like laundry soap and bleach, like the paste and paper in his studio. Comfortable, like her dad.
But he was wearing cologne now. She was 99.9 percent sure.
Not only that, but he was dressed UP. He wore his black microfiber slacks, the ones she begged him to buy because they were SO cool and he didn’t want to because they weren’t practical, and black shirt—with buttons! Like, a shirt for church, not one of his regular day shirts. Not only that, but the house was spotless, smelling of pine trees and lemons, and he’d been racing around all nervous, exactly like a guy preparing to impress someone on a hot, first date.
It so rocked!
The cologne, clothing, and cleanliness were definite clues that something was brewing. Business meeting? Yeah, sure. Maybe partly, but it was so totally more than that. Tonight’s “meeting” was special, and she might only be fourteen but she knew why. Duh, can you say obvious? They were learning about variables in algebra, and the only variable tonight was this Erica, so it had to be her. Her dad was making all this effort for a woman, something he never, ever did. It was so completely romantic that Hope’s tummy swirled with anticipation. She fought to hold back a giggle!
Biting her lip, Hope made a mental note to keep a close eye on her father tonight. She was pretty good at reading him, which wasn’t saying much because he was a total open book. If he was interested in this lady, all Hope had to say about it was, like, FINALLY. Sheesh. Her dad always claimed he was happy without a wife or girlfriend, but Hope knew better. She was just in the way. She was! But maybe things were changing? From the looks of things, this Erica was the first woman in a long time who even had a remote shot at the title of girlfriend when it came to her stubborn dad.
Her tummy clenched and she fought back another nervous giggle. Hope had no idea what would happen after tonight—maybe nothing at all. But she knew one thing for sure: things in the Garza household were about to get WAY interesting.
By the time Erica pulled up the long gravel drive, her focus of anxiety had moved to Hope. She hadn’t been ex-aggerating when she’d told Tomás she wasn’t really a kid person, and yet she knew kids were far more intuitive than adults. They quickly recognized adults who were uncomfortable around them, and she knew she’d be pegged. Her only hope at this point was that the assignment wouldn’t turn out to be horrid.
She glanced at the buildings up ahead, taking in this home, getting a feel for the animal in his natural habitat, so to speak. Tomás’s low, smallish house looked to be authentic adobe; the setting sun washed it into shades of gold and peach that Erica found both beautiful and charming. Behind it loomed a newer, large wooden structure, probably a barn. A barn? She took in the property, saw no animals. Undulating meadows spread out around the house and barn, covered with scrub oak, sage, and piñon and juniper trees. Though she was a city girl at heart, she couldn’t deny this would be a great place to raise children.
Okay, she’d stalled enough, avoiding that moment of truth when she’d have to face Tomás again and meet his daughter. What kind of person would be afraid of a fourteen-year-old girl? Idiot. Pulling in a deep breath, Erica stopped her car behind a black Ford pickup parked adjacent to the house and turned off the ignition. As the hot engine ticked, she resisted the urge to flip down her visor and check her makeup in the mirror one last time. Just nerves. She could beat them.
Alighting from the car, she retrieved a black-leather portfolio from the back seat along with her purse. She followed the small sidewalk up to the front door and then lifted her fist and hesitated only momentarily before knocking on the bright red door. As she stepped back and waited, she braced herself for the awkward moment when she’d face Tomás again, uneasy especially because she was on his turf this time.
When the door opened, however, Tomás wasn’t on the other side. Instead, Erica faced a bright-eyed little tomboy who stood, one stocking foot atop the other, smiling shyly. The girl wore low-rise jeans and a baggy Buffy the Vampire Slayer T-shirt that sort of ruined the effect of the cute tummy-baring pants. She had Tomás’s watchful, tiger’s-eye gaze and a choppy haircut that was as bad as it was endearing. Erica wondered if the girl had cut it herself, and a pang of…something unrecognizable tightened her middle. Compassion? She smiled. “Hope?”
“Hi.” The girl teetered on that precipice between girl and woman, gangly and unsure. “My dad’s in the kitchen.” She stepped back from the door and tilted her head. “Come on in, Ms…. I don’t know your last name.”
“How about if you just call me Erica?” She stepped over the threshold into a warm, welcoming living room appointed with deep, comfortable mission-style furniture and bold colors. Intricate quilts shared wall space with Zarape blankets and artwork she recognized from some of the galleries in Santa Fe and Taos. Gorgeous black Santa Clara pottery and Jemez carved redware held places of honor on the lighted shelving adjacent to a huge fireplace. The shelves seemed to have been built just for the collectible Native American pieces, and the effect was stunning. This wasn’t just a house, it was a home. Part haven, part gallery. Erica didn’t know what she’d expected, if anything, but she was impressed.
She glanced over to find Hope studying her with a childlike intensity that caught her off guard. “It’s beautiful.” She indicated the room.
Hope stuffed her hands into her back pockets and turned her attention to the room as though she’d never seen it before. “Grandma Ruby made the quilts. There’s one on my bed, too. It’s a log-cabin pattern.”
Erica couldn’t help the smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. Leave it to a child to miss the significance of the artwork in the room and go straight for the comfortable.
“Is someone talking about me?”
Erica turned at the same time Hope did and saw a small, elderly woman with a shock of almost magenta-tinted hair wheel deftly into the room from the archway behind them. She hadn’t expected Ruby to look so vibrant, but then, she didn’t know much about multiple sclerosis. “If you’re the creator of these fabulous quilts, then the answer is, yes.”
Hope pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “That’s Grandma Ruby. You better just call her Ruby.”
“Well, now. You must be Erica.” Ruby came to a stop just before her and knotted her hands loosely in her lap, which was covered by another small quilt she no doubt made herself.
“In the flesh.” Erica transferred her portfolio to her left hand and thrust out her right. “Thank you for having me.”
Ruby shook Erica’s hand. “Nonsense, it’s our pleasure. Welcome to our home. I can’t tell you how glad we are to have you helping with the quinceañera. Isn’t that right, Hope?”
Erica glanced at the girl, sure she saw something move through Hope’s expression before she bit her bottom lip and nodded silently, a placid smile on her lips.
Interesting. Erica filed that away for later.
“So,” Ruby drew out, “I will admit Tomás has told me a bit about you.” And then she chuckled softly and Erica knew.
Without a doubt.
Tomás had told his grandmother about their little misunderstanding at the Arts Festival meeting. Ugh, she wanted to kill him. Since that wasn’t appropriate behavior for a guest, she tried another angle. “Yes. Well. I’m sure I know what little bits he shared. As his grandmother, I’m counting on you to share a few of his embarrassing secrets, as well.”
Ruby’s eyes sparkled. “You can count on that.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Hope asked, baffled.
Ruby wagged a finger. “Mind your business, young lady.”
“Erica.”
So caught up in meeting Hope and Ruby, Erica somehow forgot that Tomás would be nearby. Her stomach plunged at the sound of his voice in the room, its depth and richness seeming to suck away all available oxygen. She looked toward the archway that led to the dining room beyond, and there he stood. Dressed all in black, wiping his hands on a strawberry-patterned dish towel, guarded laughter and welcome in his eyes.
God, but he was a beautiful man.
She forced a smile. “Tomás. I hope I’m not too early.”
“Not at all.” He tossed the dish towel over his shoulder as he crossed into the room, then wrapped Hope in a playful headlock. “You’ve met my girls?”
“Da-a-ad!”
Erica grinned at Hope then smiled genuinely at Ruby. “I have. We’re all old friends by now.”
“Good. Then let me get you all drinks.” He smoothed those work roughened hands together, and Erica’s gaze dropped to watch the mesmerizing motion. Why was it, with some men, you could simply look at them and imagine the feel of their hands on—
“Wine, Erica? A cocktail? What’s your pleasure?”
Arsenic? These thoughts had to stop. “How about water?” She crinkled her nose. “Sorry to be so dull, but I’m not so sure about those dark, winding backroads after a drink.”
“Backroads?” he teased. “Those are superhighways in these parts, city girl.”
“I’ll get the water,” said Hope eagerly, and they all looked at her. Tomás with raw love. Ruby with pride. And Erica, with a sense of relief. She’d only been there for a few minutes, but if Hope was always so obedient and well-behaved, this job might turn out to be easier and more pleasant than she’d anticipated.
“Thank you, baby,” Tomás said, as Hope bounded out of the room, all exuberance and no grace, like a retriever puppy. He looked at his grandmother. “Rube? How about you?”
“I will go with my great-granddaughter and fetch my own wine, thank you. I’m not an invalid who needs waiting on.” She maneuvered one large wheel until she faced the kitchen and made her way swiftly from the room.
And then they were alone.
Erica fought the urge to avert her eyes, to look anywhere but at this man. She was no high school girl, and this wasn’t a date. “They’re wonderful, Tomás. Your grandmother is a pip.”
“She’s a handful,” he said, but respect and love threaded through the statement. “God love her.”
For a moment, they were both silent, and suddenly Erica knew she needed to say something about her gaffe. Anything. Or else the not saying would loom in the room with them all night long like a giant purple monster he and she would studiously ignore.
Garnering courage with a slow intake of breath, Erica splayed a hand on her chest. The words came in a nervous rush. “Tomás, can I just say one more time how sorry I am to have made the assumptions—”
“Ah, ah.” Tomás stopped her, one palm forward. “We’re past that, Erica. A simple misunderstanding. Let’s just move on.”
She hung her head, grateful…a little embarrassed, perhaps? But she wanted him to know it had been her mistake, not based on him, really, at all. “O-okay. I just…let me say that…you need to know my assumption was never because I thought you weren’t…” She rolled her hand, realizing she’d just dug herself in further, wondering just how many times she’d wished for death since she met this man who stole her composure so easily, so completely, without even trying.
His smile widened. He was enjoying her discomfort, the rat. “That I wasn’t what?”
“Well…not virile.” Her face heated instantly. She held up her hands. “Wait, that didn’t come out right.”
Tomás laughed. “I think it came out fine. It’s good to know my virility isn’t in question.” He blew on his fingernails and buffed them along the collar of his shirt. “Did you have any comments about machismo or handsomeness you’d like to share?”
Then he winked.
She managed, just barely, to roll her eyes. Her throat felt dry and tight, but she injected an illusion of friendly drollness into her tone anyway. “Don’t push your luck, buddy.”
“Bueno. No more joking, okay? I know what you’re saying, even though you don’t have to say it, and I swear to you it’s in the past.”
“Thank God. And thank you.” A little more laughter, and then…silence. And what now? Small talk? She despised small talk. But it was either that or stand there stunned by how absolutely hot he looked with his hair hanging loose. A little bit rebel, a little bit artist. Hey, just because she wasn’t interested in marriage didn’t mean she wasn’t interested in men.
And Tomás Garza was one verrrrry interesting man.
She cleared her throat and forced her thoughts from him before she did something stupid. “Your home is lovely. You’re quite the art collector.”
“Thank you. Ruby’s the real collector, though. Most of these pieces are hers. I just build the display cases.”
“You’re a woodworker, too?”
“Hey, when you live out here, you become a jack-of-all-trades without even trying.” He ran a hand slowly through his hair, his gaze on the thick black pottery Ruby bought at the last Pueblo Festival. “The Santa Clara is my favorite. So sleek and dark. Quiet. Beautiful in its straightforwardness.”
Kind of like you, Erica thought, attuned to him in a way that frightened her. A lag in their superficial conversation ensued, and she was determined to fill it. She could pull her weight in most situations, but she absolutely couldn’t sit in silence with Tomás. Not tonight. “Hope is a lovely girl.”
“Thank you. That she is,” he said, turning his attention from the pottery. “She’s been looking forward to meeting you. At least I think.” He quirked his mouth to the side. “To be perfectly frank, my Hope isn’t a girl of many words.”
“She takes after her dad.” She wondered what traits Hope had received from her mother but knew it was a question she’d never ask. “Looks like you, too. Same eyes.”
Tomás shrank back in mock horror. “Now, don’t go and tell her that. The last thing a fourteen-year-old girl wants to hear is that she looks like her father.”
They both laughed softly, and Erica felt herself loosen up a bit. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, this dinner, this evening as an outsider with Tomás and his nontraditional little family.
Just then, Hope brought Erica’s ice water and her own and claimed a spot on the chair, tucking one stocking foot up under her. Ruby pulled up in an empty spot next to an occasional table that looked to be there just for her.
“Are you going to make the poor woman stand all night, m’ijo?” Ruby asked, eyeing her grandson sharply. “My gosh, your manners. Raised in a penitentiary, I swear.”
Tomás colored slightly but recovered just as fast. “Of course. Erica. Won’t you sit. I’ll leave you ladies to get acquainted while I check on dinner. Shouldn’t be too long. I hope you’re hungry, Erica.”
She set aside her purse and portfolio, then claimed her spot in an armchair and laid a hand on her stomach. “You told me to come hungry, and I did.”
“Excellent. Finally a woman who follows instructions.”
“Don’t make us hurt you, sonny,” Ruby warned, giving him the eye. He just laughed.
Erica sat her water glass on a stone coaster, and as Tomás moved out of the room, Hope asked her, “Do you have kids?”
Some non sequitur, Erica thought. “No kids. I’m not married. I have cousins,” she offered, as a replacement.
“Oh.” Hope twirled a finger in one choppy lock of her hair. “I wish I had cousins. My dad’s an only child, and…”
An odd pause ensued.
Ruby sipped from her wineglass, and Hope gave Erica a funny little closed-lip smile. She never finished her statement, and Erica knew better than to ask, but she didn’t quite know why. For a moment, the room fell silent. Then Ruby picked up a remote, pointed it at a stack of stereo components in a carved, wooden cabinet, and pressed the button. Soft native flute music wafted through the room, and Erica’s gaze fell on her portfolio. Business. Yes. A convenient bridge over the chasms of the unsaid that seemed to flow through this house like canals through Venice. She reached for the zippered case, glancing at Hope while she did so.
“I’ve come up with a few ideas for your quinceañera, Hope. I’m looking forward to going over them with you.”
“Oh.” The girl’s gaze lit on the portfolio before sliding away evasively. “Okay. Well…we’ll wait for Dad, though. We can just…relax until dinner’s ready.”
“Of course.” Erica abandoned the portfolio and reached for her water glass. So much for that idea.
“How about dogs?” Hope crossed her other foot up under her, then slipped into a lotus position in the chair, with the ease and flexibility of the young.
A sip, a swallow. “Excuse me?”
“Do you have dogs? Or cats?”
Erica shook her head.
“Any pets at all?”
Erica’s expression was regretful. “I travel quite a bit, and when you live alone… I had a dog when I was growing up, though. His name was Spike. And a hamster, Morton. My mom has two dogs. Does that count?”
“Everyone should have a pet, right Grandma Ruby?”
The older woman shook her head, laughing tiredly. “I’m not getting in the middle of it, m’ijita, but nice try.”
Hope giggled, and Ruby looked toward Erica. “This one has been trying to finagle a puppy out of her father now for months.”
“I love puppies!” Hope threw her arms out with exuberance. “We have, like, a zillion fields. It’s not like he wouldn’t have any place to run around.”
Erica lowered her voice, sotto voce, and leaned toward Hope. “Shhh. I’ll tell you a secret. I love puppies, too.”
Hope turned a beatific smile toward her grandmother—in truth, her great-grandmother. “See, Grammy Rube? It’s so totally perfect.”
Erica wasn’t sure if Hope meant the puppy, the secret or something else. But she did know, finally and for sure, that she would make it through this evening. Tomás was right—his daughter was a wonderful young woman rather than the sullen, petulant teen Erica had feared she’d face. Childlike, yes, but definitely not a child. A budding teen, but certainly not an adult. Hopeful, effervescent and eager to please. She reminded Erica of herself at that age, and that she could handle. Easing back in her chair, Erica sipped her water and relaxed.
By the time he had served the flourless chocolate cake and poured coffee for the adults, Tomás was beginning to mellow out. Erica seemed to fit in fine, and Hope appeared to like her. Almost too much. A pang of jealousy tightened Tomás’s middle, but he tried to ignore it. Ridiculous that he should resent the fact his daughter liked the woman, when that had been his goal in the first place. He needed to chill. It was just…he and Hope had been a team for so long, he found it difficult to let anyone else into the fold. Old story.
But Hope was fourteen. Four more years, and she could be gone. For a moment, the world and his heart jolted to a stop. Horrid, that thought, and disturbing in ways he hadn’t even begun to contemplate. He didn’t want to face them now.
“How about we talk a little about the quinceañera?” Erica said. Tomás blinked at her, only just dragging himself mentally back into the room, into reality. She glanced eagerly from him to Hope to Ruby, then bent over to retrieve her black-leather portfolio.
The quinceañera. Yes. It’s what he’d hired her for, and yet they’d spent the evening eating, drinking and talking about art, mostly. Art and soccer and the godforsaken yearning for puppies, and with each bit of conversation, he’d found himself more intrigued by her. He cleared his throat. “Yes, let’s. Hope, come here, m’ija.” He beckoned her with a sweep of his arm. “Sit next to me and we can look at everything together.”
Hope stood, then dragged her chair noisily over next to him. He draped his arm over her bony little shoulders and pulled her familiar warmth against his side. Smiling into her innocent face, he asked, “You ready?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”
“Now that’s enthusiasm for you,” Ruby said dryly. “Ach, teenagers. Pillars of zeal, I always say.”
“Great-grandmother,” Hope said, in a playfully warning tone.
“She only calls me that to get my goat,” Ruby told Erica.
Smiling, Erica opened the pages of the portfolio turning them to face Tomás and Hope. “First of all, you’re going to have to sign up for some reconfirmation classes at your church.” She glanced at Tomás. “I’m assuming you do want religious instruction as a part of this? From what I’ve read, it’s traditional to have a thanksgiving mass with the ceremony, but this is the twenty-first century and I’m all about being nontraditional. We can modify however you wish.”
“Well, we belong to a church in town.” His face heated. “I can’t say we’re there fifty-two Sundays a year—”
“Or ever,” Hope quipped.
Erica waved that away. “I’ll leave that up to you. If you decide to go the church route, though, you should get started.” She turned a page. “Hope, you’ll also have to choose some community service to do for the summer.”
She looked baffled. “Like what?”
“Anything that interests you,” Tomás said.
Hope looked at her grandmother. “I’d like to do something for people with multiple sclerosis.”
Erica smiled. “Perfect. I’ll search out some options, and you can do the same.”
“There is a ranch around here that offers therapeutic horseback riding for people with MS. It’s called hippotherapy, even though I think it should be called horse-o-therapy.” The adults laughed, and she shrugged. “We learned about it in health class. I guess riding a horse can help some people with their MS symptoms. Maybe I could volunteer there?”
“That’s beautiful, baby,” Tomás said, kissing her cheek.
“Yes.” Ruby reached over and patted Hope’s hand. “But don’t even think about getting me on a horse.”
Everyone chuckled again.
“Other than that, assuming you’ll have the mass and ceremony at your church…?” She looked at Tomás in question, and he nodded. “Then the most pressing details will be selecting and booking a site for la fiesta, the party afterward, and ordering the cake, choosing a menu and selecting Hope’s vestido.”
“My what?”
“Your dress,” all three adults answered at once.
“And you’ll need to select your damas and chambelanes, in other words, the lords and ladies who will comprise your honor court.” Erica winked. “In plain talk, friends who get to dress up with you and cute boys you all get to dance with. Seven of each is traditional, plus one special escort just for you.”
Hope blushed prettily.
Erica flipped another page. “There are other smaller details…ordering the cake, deciding what recuerdos, or mementos you’d like for all your guests, learning the waltz—”
“What waltz?” Hope shrieked.
Tomás chuckled. It’s traditional for the corte de honor, your lords and ladies, to dance the waltz. Along with you and me, and I get the first dance.” Hope pulled a look of abject horror. “Don’t worry, baby, if I can do it, you can do it.”
“Smaller details yet—” Erica directed her comment to Tomás “—you’ll need to come up with a toast, Hope’s godparents will present her with a gift. And then there is the shoe thing.”
“What shoe thing?” Hope asked.
“At one point during the fiesta, before the waltz with your father, he is to replace your patent-leather flats with a pair of high heels. After that, all the younger children gather, and you’ll toss the muñeca, your final doll of childhood. It’s all meant to represent your move from childhood to adulthood.”
“It sounds so weddingish,” Hope said, nose crinkled.
Erica tipped her head to the side. “Well, it sort of is. It’s an acknowledgement by your family and your community that you’re no longer a child. A rite of passage.”
“Does that mean I get to date boys?” Hope teased.
Tomás made a pained face. “Unfortunately, yes. But no car dating until you’re thirty.”
“Gee, sounds reasonable,” Erica said, jokingly. “You know, it is also traditional for Hope’s godparents and other special people in her life to act as sponsors, defray some of the costs.”
“No need. I’ve got it all.”
Her eyebrows lifted on a careful inhale, but she didn’t question it. “Whatever works for you.”
He regarded her across the table. For an assignment she hadn’t wanted, she’d sure done a lot of work already. He had been smart to hire her, despite the exorbitant fee. The portfolio pages held drawings, fabric swatches, lists, charts. They’d gone over each page, with Tomás alternating between nodding and watching her intelligent, beautiful face. Her full lips moved sensuously as she spoke. It was enough to distract him completely from the matter at hand. The working Erica and the having-a-friendly-dinner Erica were two parts of a very interesting, enticing whole. He had to remember, she was here for Hope. Man, he had to stop watching her mouth.
“So, what do you think?” The portfolio closed, and Erica tossed her hair. “I’ve been doing most of the talking.”
“It’s going to be so nice,” Ruby said.
“It looks wonderful to me.” Tomás looked at Hope. “Baby?”
She rolled her eyes, and he grinned, because she hated to be called that. But she was his baby, from the moment he’d held her tiny swaddled form when he was seventeen—alone, at once terrified of and awed by what he’d created, adoring and determined to protect her—to now, when she was on the verge of womanhood. Mysterious and edgy. She’d always be his baby, like it or not. Some things he wouldn’t budge on.
Hope lifted a shoulder, her face emotionless. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?”
“Sure.” Her eyes flickered uncertainly toward Erica. “I mean, the ideas are good.”
“Do you have any other ideas?” Erica asked.
“Not really,” Hope said, after a moment of thought.
Tomás sighed, pulled a put-upon face and hugged Hope closer. “What did I tell you about Little Miss No Help at All?”
Hope clicked her tongue. “Dad, stop it.”
Erica rezipped the portfolio. “It’s a lot to take in, but we have plenty of time, don’t worry. Speaking of which—” she propped her elbows atop the portfolio and knotted her hands beneath her chin. “When do you get out of school, Hope?”
“In June.”
“Okay. That’s perfect. I think we can wait to do a lot of the legwork until after that. I’ll spend the rest of this month planning. You concentrate on school. I’ve got the festival and some other assignments, too.” She checked her PalmPilot, which she’d retrieved from her bag. “Does that work for you, Tomás?”
“Absolutely, if you think you can swing everything. But perhaps you and I…can we meet briefly, say, once a week for a progress update? Just a coffee or lunch in town—”
“Or dinner,” suggested Hope. Ruby and Tomás turned to her, surprise in their expressions.
Erica made a notation in her PalmPilot, ignoring the dinner prompt altogether. “Coffee works. We can set some times….”
Tomás gripped the top of Hope’s head in his hand and shook playfully. “Let me get this one off to bed and we can talk a few minutes before you leave, coordinate things.”
“Dad,” Hope groaned, standing up. “I can go to bed myself, you know. I’m not a baby.”
“I know, I know, so you keep telling me.” He smacked her playfully on the backside. “You run on then.”
Hope blinked shyly at Erica. “Thanks for coming over, Erica. I hope you liked dinner.”
“You’re welcome, and it was great. We’ll talk soon?”
Hope giggled. “Okay.” She turned to her dad. “Erica loves puppies. She thinks everyone should have one.”
Tomás smirked in Erica’s direction. “Thanks a lot.”
Erica just grinned.
Ruby wheeled back from the table. “If you two don’t mind, I’ll retire also. It’s been a long day.”
“Of course, Rube. You go on.”
The older woman turned to their guest. “Erica, it’s been such a pleasure. Do come back sometime soon.”
“Oh, believe me,” Erica replied, laughter in her tone. “I’m going to need your help on this quinceañera. I fear you’ll see so much of me you’ll be begging me to leave.”
Tomás watched as the two women shook hands. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine ever growing tired of Erica’s company. He could tell by Ruby’s amused, knowing stare that she agreed, and also that she knew what he’d been thinking.
On that note, what in the hell had he been thinking? After fourteen years of avoiding even the remote possibility of entanglements that might put Hope in a vulnerable position, he’d willingly brought a beautiful woman into his house, into all their lives, even if only for business reasons. She was here, and the memory of her, he knew, would linger even when she’d left.
Hope liked her. Ruby liked her.
He even liked her, maybe a little too much.
He avoided entanglements, sure, but he’d never claimed to be celibate, and right now his libido was in rage mode. Damn. What had he been thinking, indeed?

Chapter Five
After the Garza women, young and old, retreated to their bedrooms, Erica accepted one last cup of coffee and joined Tomás on the back patio to discuss their meeting schedule and some last-minute details. The rural night beyond the light of the stake lanterns loomed black and silent, save the steady insect symphony and the intermittent, far-off howl of coyotes.
Resisting the languor brought on by the ambience, they got down to business immediately. Once they’d plugged a few meeting dates and backup options into their calendars, they sat back with completion. The setting instantly felt intimate to Erica, the company at once comfortable and disconcerting. She found herself determined to keep things friendly with Tomás, to stop shying away from him. She ran her palm along the smooth-sanded armrests of the hand-carved lounger, reveling in her feeling of ease around Tomás and yet not trusting herself for it. She fell back, once again, on small talk.
“I’ll give you one thing.” She patted her stomach. “You weren’t kidding when you said you could cook.”
He smiled, and the play of torchlight on his face showed her that his beard was coming in. A gentle breeze tossed loose strands of his long hair against his cheek. He looked at once rough and serene, unguarded but still emotionally distant. Politely so. He looked…so sexy. Gorgeous and dangerous and inaccessible—an enticing mix no matter the circumstances.
“Well,” he said, a little wryly, “I’m glad you enjoyed the meal. When life throws you into single fatherhood at the age of seventeen, you find the time to learn all kinds of skills. Cooking is second nature to me now.”
Wow. It was the most he’d admitted about his rather enigmatic life since they’d met, and she didn’t quite know how to respond. Luckily, she didn’t have to. Before she’d completed one tight swallow, Tomás went on.
“On that note, there are a couple of things you should know, Erica, since you’re going to be spending time alone with my daughter, which is something I don’t allow many people to do.” He slid her an almost apologetic glance. “I don’t like to think of them as rules, but…”
A small pause. Her wariness returned like a shifting wind. She managed to remain still and keep the apprehension from her tone. At least she hoped. “Okay.”
For a moment, all she heard were the crickets. When he started to speak, his voice was low.
“Her mother left us. We were never married, but then again—” a self-deprecating shrug “—we were kids.” He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees, rubbing his palms together slowly. A myriad of emotions crossed his face. Anger, disappointment, sadness, resolve. “Hope doesn’t know her, has never known her. And…we don’t talk about it.” His gaze met hers then, level and full of meaning, and the motions with his hands stopped. “I’d appreciate it if you’d respect that.”
Her stomach tightened. Could she believe what she was hearing? “Ever?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t discuss Hope’s mother ever?”
He shrugged. “She was two years older than Hope is now when…when it happened.” He seemed to go pale at the thought but shook it off quickly. “She left when Hope was still nursing, never looked back. Why talk about a mother who never wanted to be involved in my daughter’s life? Who never was involved? What’s the point?”
Closure? Catharsis? Erica could think of a lot of reasons, but none, she knew, that would convince this man. And really, was it any of her business? Still, she couldn’t keep from voicing the questions swirling around in her mind. She moistened her lips, treading cautiously. “Hope’s okay with that?”
He blew out a weary sigh, but his tension seemed to ease slightly. He smoothed one hand slowly down his face. “I don’t know. She never speaks of her mother. Nothing to speak about. I mean, she doesn’t know the woman.”
But wouldn’t that fact in and of itself be something to discuss, Erica wondered? Ah, well. It wasn’t her family, definitely wasn’t her problem. If Tomás wanted her to pretend that Hope had been miraculously born without a mother, she would. And she’d pass Go, and collect five thousand dollars—no problem whatsoever, she decided. “It’s fine. Don’t worry. It wouldn’t cross my mind to probe the child about her parentage anyway.”
But Erica knew herself too well. If Hope brought the subject up…? Ah, well, she’d face that problem if and when it arose. As he said, Hope never talked about her mother anyway. Smiling gently, to put him at ease about her time with Hope, she asked, “Is that all? The only rule?”
“I…I guess so.” Sincerity deepened the color of his eyes as he watched her. “Thank you. For understanding.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
She tucked her hair behind her ears, staring into the blackness rather than meeting the eyes of this emotionally damaged man. Somehow glimpsing a bit of his vulnerability rendered him an even bigger threat to her senses. “I’m…sorry you went through that. It must’ve been hard.” Silence. She finally glanced toward him.
He took a long, slow sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of his mug. Not so much suspicious as guarded. Always guarded. When finally he swallowed, he said, “We’ve made do.”
“That, I can see. You’ve done a great job. But still, it must have been difficult for you. That’s all I’m saying.”
He hiked one shoulder. “Hell, no one ever promised life would be easy. And I wouldn’t change one thing if it meant I didn’t have Hope.”
Erica smiled. She never knew a proud papa could be sexy but here sat a prime example. Family men had never appealed before, for obvious reasons. Ready-made mommy, she wasn’t.
Tomás’s expression turned troubled again. “One of the things I promised myself, though, is that she wouldn’t be shorted. That I’d provide a good life for her, everything she needs and wants.” His jaw ticked. “I’ve always dreamed of a beautiful quinceañera, a day just for her.”
“What all fathers would want, I guess.”
“Yes, but…” He pressed his lips together, seeming to struggle for the right words. “What I mean is, a send-off befitting a young lady who didn’t have an impetuous teenage boy for a father…and no mother. A real…event. Something complete. Something…not lacking.”
Her heart jolted, and she understood. She finally understood, once and for all, and it made her heart squeeze with compassion and empathy. She yearned to reassure him, to validate his efforts as a parent who’d overcome tremendous odds. Oh, Tomás, she wanted to say, a party can’t make up for a mother’s absence, and you have nothing to atone for anyway.

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