Big Chicas Don't Cry(9)
That seemed to satisfy him because he went back to nuzzling my neck.
A drop of guilt needled at me for the lie I had just told him. There was no doctor’s appointment. Between my charity commitments and the round of holiday parties I had either hosted or attended, I simply hadn’t got around to scheduling one. Not that it mattered. Esteban was going to start a new trial the first week of January. It would be a miracle if I even had dinner with him during the week. I told myself he’d forget about it eventually. Just like he had all the other times.
Honestly, I just wasn’t ready. I was only twenty-eight. Couldn’t I have at least two more years enjoying my kid-free life?
Esteban rolled on top of me and pushed my panties to the side. My thoughts drifted back to the earrings he had given me last Christmas. I had worn them that day as he had asked me to, but that evening I had put them back in their white box and . . . oh, yes. That’s right. I had put them in the bottom of my lingerie drawer. Satisfied that I would be able to find them after all, I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy myself.
God, that sounded so bad.
Of course I was going to enjoy my gorgeous husband being inside me. Especially since it had been days since the last time we’d made love.
Technically it had really been a quickie in the shower. And—technically—we never, uh, finished because his leg cramped up and he had to drop me back on my own two feet in order to massage it with searing hot water.
“Yes. Uh-huh. I’m. Going. To.”
Wait, wait, wait for me, I screamed silently.
But it was too late. With one final thrust, I knew I wasn’t going to be getting an orgasm for Christmas.
Later, while Esteban showered, I sat on the edge of my California king bed and lazily lifted my right index finger to brush the pendant. It really was lovely. It just wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for. As soon as I saw that little box, I knew that there was no way there was the latest iPad stuffed inside it. It wasn’t like I hadn’t dropped enough hints. Esteban got me what Esteban wanted to get me. And that always meant jewelry.
I should have been grateful, I guess. When I was growing up, how many times had I wished for a man who would shower me with diamonds? Especially when the electricity would get turned off in our small apartment because Daddy hadn’t sent a check that month. I decided back then as I tried to do my homework with a flashlight that I would marry a rich man—not someone like my father who would rather spend his money on beer than his family. When I met Esteban, I thought my wish had come true. He was ten years older but as handsome as the movie stars he defended in court, he was ridiculously successful and rich, and he adored me.
Still, I made a mental note to order the iPad myself later. It was my own damn fault for hoping that Esteban would get me something I actually wanted.
I touched the pendant again. It really was a beautiful and thoughtful gift.
Stop being ridiculous and start being happy. It’s Christmas.
“Esteban! Your breakfast is getting cold. Please come downstairs, mijo,” my suegra yelled from the kitchen downstairs. Blanca Delgado stood at only four feet, eleven inches, but she had a voice that could set off car alarms—especially when she was telling her son what to do. “Esteban!” she screeched again. “It’s Christmas, and you need to be spending it with your family. Come downstairs now!”
“He’s in the shower!” I yelled back and then collapsed backward onto the bed.
Your family.
Warm, familiar memories of helping Welita get the tamale supplies ready the day before Christmas Eve played like a movie in my head. I watched as the girl I used to be excitedly unwrapped presents in front of a brightly lit tree in Abuela’s living room and then stuffed her face with candy canes and See’s chocolates. The magic of Christmas waned when I was a teenager, as it usually did for most—even though I had other reasons for not being as impressed with the holiday as before. And even though I had tried hard every year as a wife to re-create that feeling of wonder and joy in my own home, my efforts were always overshadowed once Blanca arrived. Whether it was being personally offended by the height of the tree in the foyer or secretly replacing the animals in my nacimiento display, my suegra always let me know she could do better for Esteban because she was his family.
When would that woman finally admit that I was Esteban’s family too?
It was an hour later when I finally made my appearance downstairs. I had taken my sweet time to straighten my hair, put on my makeup, and dress in a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, black leggings, and caramel leather riding boots. Esteban and his mother had already eaten without me, of course. So I made myself a cup of coffee, sat down at the breakfast table in the kitchen, and nibbled on one of the bu?uelos I had baked the day before.
“I think those are the best you’ve ever made.”
A smile tugged at my lips before I even met the soft brown eyes belonging to the familiar deep voice.
Chris Ramos, my husband’s oldest friend and firm partner, stood in the entryway leading to our dining room.
“I guess that means you’ve already helped yourself to some . . . as usual. It’s a wonder that you left any for me.”
He laughed and then shrugged. “What can I say? Esteban offered me a cup of coffee after I arrived, and they were just sitting there on the counter. You know I’m no good at saying no to temptation.”
Even from a few feet away, I could see the way his smile faltered for the briefest of seconds. My stomach twisted. And although I wasn’t quite sure why, I felt guilty about it.