Page 82 of Fourth Base with the Alpha

Hunter’s fingers move as if he’s imagining playing the bass for the song and my grandma claps her hands, then beckons me over. She takes both our hands in hers and joins them together.

“Young people should dance,” she says and happily I fall into his arms. Laughing when my grandmother claps. “The alpha can dance,” she says.

“He can.”

As he spins me around I catch sight of my mom watching us from the doorway, her head leaning against the doorframe. I have vague memories of my dad spinning her around the kitchen when we were young. She loved to dance back then.

I glance up at Hunter. He’s so big. I thought he’d look cramped and awkward in our tiny apartment and yet he seems to fit right at home.

If I wasn’t in love with him before, I realize in this moment, as the trumpets sing out and he holds me against his chest, my grandmother whooping, that I am now.

Completely and utterly.

And it’s nothing like the movies.

Because this is terrifying and precious. Dangerous and wonderful.

All at once.

* * *

I walkhim to his car, kissing him out in the street under the lamplights even though I’m sure my family are watching us from the kitchen window.

When I return to the apartment, I join my mom and grandma at the kitchen table drinkingcafecitoand nibbling onqueque cubano.

My grandmother’s smile is wider than I’ve seen it in months and I realize she’s hardly smiled at all since Maria died. Hunter is making all of us happier. The man who claims to be the biggest grump this side of the Atlantic is brightening our lives.

“When are you two getting married?”

“Married?” I shake my head. “We only just started dating.”

“But you two are crazy in love.”

Maybe I am. Hunter? I don’t know. He hasn’t told me how he feels. It’s clear he wants me, my body, perhaps my company. But does he want more? Or is it all part of the illusion? Has the fake-dating gone a little too far?

“I’m not–”

“He took you to Sweden to meet his family,” my mom says, “and he came to see us. It must be serious.”

“It’s early days and the Sweden trip was–”

“Have you gone to fifth base with him, Isabella?” my mom asks.

I choke on my food, spitting half of it down my chin.

“Mami!”

“What Isabella? I had two children. You don’t think I know about these things.”

“What do you think fifth base is exactly, Mami?” My mom stares at me like I’m stupid. “Mami, I don’t think it’s what you think it is.”

“Making babies,” she snaps. My grandma nods.

“We’re not making any babies,” I insist. Jeez, we only started fake-dating a couple of weeks ago. “And it isn’t that. That’s fourth base.”

“Then what’s fifth?” she asks. “I know I’ve heard of it.”

“Do not make me say it, Mami,” I warn.