Page 7 of Safe Bet (The Final Offer Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER FIVE

My dad told me he knew my ma was the “one” within thirty seconds of meeting her.

Two weeks later, he’d married her.

Of course, that was a different time and different circumstances. Ma was nineteen to Dad’s twenty-nine. I teased Ma that the only reason she’d agreed to marry my old man was because Dad was America-bound, and the prospect of leaving the political hellscape Portugal had turned into enticed her.

Dad, while stroking his bearded chin, agreed. “It’s because she’s smart.”

Ma, naturally, got all pissed off, one hand stacked on her waist, the other raised with one finger jutting directly at him like a dagger. “José! That is not why I married you!”

“No?” His brows inched with fake surprise, and he would reach for whatever he was drinking, bringing the glass to his mouth. “Remind me why you married me.” Sip. “I’m sorry. I’m old.” Another sip. “My memory isn’t too good anymore.”

Ma narrowed her eyes. “Your memory is just fine. Your blood pressure” —she made a so-so hand gesture— “not so much.”

Dad chuckled. “C’mon, minha vida.” My life. “Tell me why.”

He just liked hearing the story from her perspective. Never seemed to tire of it, no matter how many years had gone by. All jokes aside, without fail, Ma’s features always softened, and she’d stack her hands over the middle of her chest. “In those times, life was scary and very hard, Felix. Papers or not, your dad made the tightness here”— she’d draw in a full breath, referencing where her hands laid— “disappear.”

“This guy” —I’d gesture at Dad with a thumb, it was part of the routine— “made you feel safe?”

“That guy is the only person who ever has made me feel that way.” In my peripheral, Dad’s chest puffed. “ Still does.” Ma’s hand drifted to her temple. “It’s quiet up here when I’m around him. I don’t worry about what comes next. I just know we’re doing it together.” Her amber stare would find Dad’s hazel one, and any lingering stiffness in her body melted away like butter on a hot pan.

Transatlantic moves to escape a dictatorship. Getting a handle on a new language. Jobs. A house. Babies. Life.

It didn’t matter what they were doing, as long as it was with each other.

Contrary to my earlier hard stance with Dumb and Dumber out in the courtyard, I did believe in the adage of “when you know, you know.”

I mean, kinda hard not to with parents like mine. As much as I razzed Dad that his golden ticket into Ma’s good graces had been immigration paperwork and a plane ticket, I knew that wasn’t true, either. My parents were open about their affection for one another.

They could never pass the other without Dad pausing to tuck Ma’s hair behind her ear so he could see her profile better, and Ma always brushed her fingers against his or nudged him with her hip when she passed if her hands were full. They still openly flirted with each other—gag-worthy level—but Ma had told me Dad was pretty reserved and red in the face through every interaction the first week after they’d met. They’d had all of eight conversations at her open kitchen window while my grandfather listened on from the table three feet away up until they said, “I do.” But I’d started to appreciate their devotion to one another as I got older. It was hard not to. They’d set such a high standard. I didn’t want to settle for less than what they had.

And despite my uh, weekend outings , I didn’t think what I was looking for existed in Fall River, never mind Massachusetts. If I was being honest, I wasn’t sure she existed at all.

Up until an hour ago, anyway.

My fingers flexed gently around the slender hand linked in mine. She’d been under my nose the whole time. Kind of hard not to be a little pissed off with myself for not realizing it sooner.

But I had her now, and while Belmira had made a valiant effort to establish clear perimeters alongside a do not pass sign, those were suggestions.

She’d said she didn’t want a boyfriend, but what about a husband?

That was as serious as it got, and I was convinced that she was it for me. Even if I couldn’t explain it, it resounded in the very marrow of my bones.

The silken sense of peace Ma had described. Quiet. Calm.

Well, as peaceful as I could get while Belmira’s anxious, almond eyes worked around the room, on high alert for someone, fretting.

I wished I could ease her the way she eased me. Reiterate my intentions were pure despite her misgivings because of how forward I was. I’d already lost time with her. I wasn’t willing to lose more, so I cut to the chase. While I wasn’t confident it had secured me any brownie points, I thought it disarmed her enough to let her guard down a little.

I’d gotten the sense not everyone had managed to get her to bare her teeth at them. I didn’t take that for granted. It meant I saw something so few others did. That outside the good girl template was someone desperate to be free. She’d just needed someone to tell her it was safe enough to come out.

Speaking of which, where was my mother-in-law to be? I’d followed Belmira’s bouncing stare while we stood in line. I’d admittedly started to get dizzy and, instead, focused on pacifying my own creeping doubts that maybe Maria was right, and this wouldn’t be as easy as I wanted it to be.

But I’d do whatever I needed to earn the woman’s trust, to prove myself worthy enough for her daughter. Stand outside the kitchen window. Sit on the couch with her ma between us. Lay out my intentions because I had a plan.

… Calling it a “plan” was probably the wrong term for this. It sounded so calculated and measured, but wasn’t a life plan supposed to be a series of small decisions we made as a bid for a guarantee?

Right now, I only knew surface-level things about Belmira, information we’d exchanged while waiting in line for the bar. Her favorite show was Daria . She was an only child, with a vast collection of cassette tapes covertly hidden in a nondescript box in her closet. “It’s devil music,” she claimed with air quotations and a subtle roll of her eyes, but she hadn’t hesitated to blurt out she loved the Backstreet Boys over NSYNC, her cheeks tinting.

Boy bands did it for her.

She’d only been to Portugal once and had changed the subject when I asked if she wanted to go again. She preferred dogs over cats, though she had neither. “Ma doesn’t like pets.”

Her ma didn’t seem to like anything or anyone for that matter.

Our exchange might have sounded superficial to anyone eavesdropping, but it was the hidden answers peppered in her responses I held on to.

She aligned with Daria’s viewpoints. It offered her comfort despite being so different from the version she’d presented herself as.

She wasn’t above doing things in secret if it meant getting what she wanted, fear of God or not—nineties boy bands included.

Her disinterest in Portugal suggested she either had a fear of flying or a bad experience she’d yet to recover from since her last visit.

She appreciated cats’ independence but craved the additional care involved in being a dog person.

As for the topic surrounding her dad, I’d avoided that for now, though the question was gnawing at me. He wasn’t the first dad to walk out on their family—Dougie’s had done the same—but something about it just felt off, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. I had plenty of time to figure it out, though, because I had… a plan for her and me.

A plan. Fuck it. That was what we were calling it.

Or someday plan because I was aware at this stage, this was lust, and lust was far from rational and made you liable to do equally irrational things, like suggesting we skip the bar entirely and head to Vegas instead.

Tacky chapel. Elvis wedding officiant.

My ma would want us to do the whole big Portuguese wedding like they were actively planning for my sister, and I had an inkling Belmira’s ma would want that too once she warmed up to the idea of me.

I wanted the marriage part. The life.

Two kids, three if she really wanted them. She wouldn’t have to strong-arm me into that one.

Two dogs because odd numbers made me uncomfortable.

…So, maybe four kids.

White picket fence I repainted every other summer because she liked the snowy contrast it gave the lavender planted between the cedars bordering the fence.

I wanted to roll her under me in the early morning when the house was still asleep to set the tone for the rest of our day. I’d bet the soft pink and orange of sunrise poking out from the open curtains and kissing her skin made her look otherworldly. The image contended with the alternative. Silvery strobes of moonlight serving like a spotlight, thighs stretched over my waist, nightgown pooled around her hips, hands planted against my chest for balance, fingernails rasping against the hair on my chest as she sought her own pleasure.

Hard to say which fantasy I liked more.

Weekly dates and mid-morning Sunday masses, we’d both struggle to stay focused through because neither one of us wanted to admit we were only here because of the social obligation, not because we felt a connection with our lapsed faith. Followed by lunch at my parents’ after, where they’d overfeed us, and we wouldn’t be hungry for dinner later. Our kids playing in the yard with my future nieces and nephews. Dad hollering at them to get off his grass and leave his grapes alone while fighting to keep the laughter out of his voice.

A scolding about where I’d left my socks the night before, followed by kisses against her resting frown lines and a murmured promise that I wouldn’t do it again.

I’d start her day with a cup of coffee I made her first—or tea if that was her vice. I wanted to brush her wet hair out for her post-shower and never let a day go by where she didn’t know how much she meant to me.

Someday, because stating any of that now, with the level of confidence I felt, was crazy and would no doubt have her hightailing it back to her table and effectively avoiding me the rest of the night. Not that I’d be able to blame her.

The strength of my certainty didn’t make any fucking sense. She was screwing with my head.

But I didn’t mind.

Absently, my thumb outlined measuring rotations along her ring finger again. What kind of ring did she want? Gold or silver? Platinum would look good against her complexion, though. Had she given any thought to the setting? Something minimalist and unobtrusive that wouldn’t get in the way at the bakery and complemented her finger.

Would she call me crazy if I told her she felt like the one? If I told her my dad had known Ma was it for him right away and I was pretty confident she was it for me, too.

I didn’t need two years to figure it out. We could hit fast forward because I wanted it all now. Not that I was going to, y’know, say any of that out loud. Yet. But if I did… would it spook her?

Belmira’s attention fixed to our fastened hands, heavy consideration pulling her mouth to the left. My thumb ceased its calculation, bracing myself for the inevitable but hoping for a different outcome.

Please don’t pull away, please don’t pull away…

As though hearing me, Belmira’s assessing brown stare crawled up to meet mine. A million unspoken questions reflected at me, but she didn’t let one fall from her parted lips. Her returning grip flexed in mine, the scan of her thumb swiping along my knuckles communicating her assurance.

Clearing my throat, I evened out my posture, attempting confident. “You good?”

The regulating breath she drew hitched her chest, expiring from her in a slow, warm exhale, dragging her shoulders downward. “Yeah.” The dazed hint fringed her lilt. “I’m good.”

The rapid thumping of a hand colliding against the bar top had me peeling my eyes from her reluctantly. The bartender stared at me expectantly, his bowtie slightly off-kilter under his waistcoat. “What can I get for you?” he asked, leaning in to hear us over the music.

Belmira said she didn’t drink, but I needed something to calm my damn nerves. “Samuel Adams and a wat?—”

“Actually,” she interjected, shifting her weight. “Could I get…” her nose wrinkled, “a screwdriver?” She canted her head, visibly uncertain that was the right thing. “That’s just orange juice and vodka, right?”

“Yeah, it is.” I trapped the chuckle, endeared by her inexperience. “But I thought you said you don’t drink?”

“I don’t.” She traced her tongue along the inseam of her lip, the gesture getting my attention. God help me. “But I think I need it.” She leaned in, whispering her confession, “My nerves are shot.”

I whistled lowly. “Makes two of us.”

Her laughter was a dizzying titter, pure and unfiltered, and I couldn’t help but join in. She had a contagious laugh, and the sight of the apples of her cheeks rounding made me indescribably proud of myself for being the one who had done that to her. Her giggle tapered off, the muscles in her cheeks easing into their natural resting place of wistful, and it took everything—and I mean everything—not to kiss her right then and there.

To bring back her smile again.

“Go light on the vodka,” I informed the bartender without looking at him. Even if she was seeking liquid courage, I didn’t want her getting tipsy.

Not here, and not on our first… what were we calling this? It sure as shit wasn’t a date. I’d take her on one of those as early as tomorrow if she had time for me. I imagined her mornings and early afternoons were hectic, but if she wasn’t busy in the evening, I could take her to a movie.

“Have you seen Titanic yet?” I’d already watched it once a couple of weeks ago. Alone. Cried like a fucking baby at the end. I thought I could keep it together the second time around. I mean, I hoped I could. Maybe.

“No. I don’t…” Belmira sagged. Shit. What did I do now? “I don’t get out much.”

“Did you want to go tomorrow?”

She flushed, her mouth opening and closing. “I can’t.”

“Monday, then?”

“Felix.” She attempted to wrench her hand gently from mine, but I held on, foiling her retreat. Flustered, her cheeks flushed. “I meant what I said.”

“You said nothing serious,” I pointed out. “A movie is about as non-serious as it gets. You don’t even have to talk to me. It’s a win-win.” Plus, she didn’t have to worry about me making a move on her. When I went to the movies, I was there to watch the movie. What happened after the ending credits was a whole other story.

“It sounds like a date,” she whispered, treading back another step to create distance. Strangely, despite the space, she held onto my hand a little tighter.

She didn’t want to let go.

Her words said one thing, but her actions said another. What was she really so afraid of? Maria had wigged-out over Belmira’s ma, but shit, the woman couldn’t be that much of a villain, could she?

“It can be whatever you want it to be,” I said.

She fell silent, hesitation establishing a slight tic in her jaw. “Is this how it is? I give you an inch and you take a mile?”

“Tell me you don’t want to see a movie with me.”

“I don’t want to see a movie with you,” she deadpanned, but the right side of her mouth twitched.

I smirked. “It’s cute when you lie.”

Belmira broke eye contact. “Why Titanic ?”

“As opposed to?”

“I dunno.” She shrugged. “What about the new one, uhm… you know…” She motioned with a bobbing, closed fist, in what I imagined was supposed to mimic a stabbing gesture, but unfortunately for me, it looked closer to how I thought she’d—I swallowed tightly, forcing myself to concentrate on her face.

Head, meet gutter. Gutter, meet head. Hell, meet Felix.

Bashful, she blew air up into her bangs. “The one with the guy in the white mask that looks like a ghost.”

If I hadn’t been so keyed up, because apparently, I was fifteen again, I would have caught on sooner. “ Scream 2 ?” Her head sloped to the right with a maybe? in her eyes. “Have you seen the first one?”

Belmira shook her head. “No.”

“Do you like slasher movies?”

“I have no idea.” Her nose wrinkled again. “I’ve never watched one.”

That cleared the fog away. How sheltered of a life had she led? “What do you mean?” Not a single slasher movie? Felicity and I were practically raised on a weekly trip to Blockbuster and Hollywood Video to keep us out of trouble over the weekend. We still went a few times a month together, and we lived in the horror movie section. I liked the special effects and the shots used by the director to tell the story. My sister liked making fun of the too-dumb-to-live characters.

“Like I said…” Belmira observed the bartender while I studied her. “I don’t get out much.”

“But you’ve been to the movies before?”

“Yeah.” Her feet shuffled. “Once.”

“What did you see?”

Her chin dipped, the motion freeing her dark locks from their place behind her ear, shielding her face. On reflex, I reached out, tucking it back. She stilled when my fingers made contact, her wide eyes finding mine.

“Well?” I pressed, the back of my hand lingering against the pulse point on her neck, basking in the urgent charge.

She swallowed. Hard. “ Interview with the Vampire .”

“Gory.” Not a slasher, but certainly not what I’d expected to hear from her. I was at the movies once a week, and she hadn’t been in four years.

I didn’t think that was by choice, either. I was beginning to grasp “I don’t get out much” translated to not being allowed to do anything.

Which made me wonder… “Who’d you go with?”

“What?” she squeaked.

“The movie,” I clarified, intrigued. “Who’d you see it with?”

“Uhm,” was all she could manage to extract from the clog in her throat, the words refusing to surface.

The blush climbed her neck, cheeks flaming red. Well, well. The proverbial good girl could act out after all. Good to know.

Sparing her from further embarrassment, I volunteered, “I like movies with romance plots.”

Relieved I’d let her off the hook—for now—she tacked on, “And slasher movies.”

“Balance,” I quipped. Bringing her hand to my mouth, I pressed my lips to the back, registering how soft her skin was.

Where else was she that soft?

Nope . Bad fucking idea.

Widening my stance, I rotated my shoulders, chasing the wayward thought away. Far, far, far away, because we were not wondering about that right now. In fact, we weren’t hypothesizing about that for a long time.

But someday… I made the mistake of meeting her dilated eyes, her pupils lost in the dark ring, the choppy cadence of her breaths sawing out of her from her rosy lips.

Fuck. Me.

What did you know? Maintaining eye contact was an even worse idea because it made me liable to do something I’d desperately wanted to do since I saw her outside.

Kiss her.

I fought the stirring in my groin with gruesome memories of infamous horror movie kills because I was dangerously close to saluting her. Even though there was some give in these pants, this wasn’t how I wanted to introduce her to that part of me.

I was determined to do this completely different from the way I’d handled every other relationship. Every other girl.

Because Belmira Tavares wasn’t every other girl.

She was the girl.

Rushing into bed with her—erm, getting her into the backseat of my car—was not on the agenda. Even if I had this incessant, nagging inkling I was racing against the fine grains of sand in an hourglass, I was hell-bent on staying the course.

Nice and slow. When it happened, it happened, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be in the cramped backseat of my car. I’d shell out on something nice.

Until then, I’d revel in moments where I got to hold her hand. Hell, at this point, sharing air with her outside of this building would make my day.

I just wanted to be close to her.

Lowering her hand still clasped in mine, I basked in the wetting of her lips with her tongue—she’d wiped off the lipstick at some point—complete with the tight hitching of her chest as though she’d forgotten how to breathe.

I’d offer her a temporary reprieve on the date thing. She’d be singing a different tune in a few hours. “Have you never had a drink before?”

Whether it was intentional, she leaned against me, steadying herself. “I have.” A wistful smile teased her full, bare lips, remembering something. As quickly as the onset of the smile had arrived, it vanished, dragging my sinking stomach with it. “My dad used to make wine when he was around.” His name reappeared in my mind. Duarte Tavares. “He’d put me in the barrel to crush the grapes when I was younger. They were so cold and squishy between my toes.” She shuddered, grossed out by the memory of the sensation. “But it was my favorite time of year. I’d be out in the garage with him for hours, laughing my head off.” Her voice took on a mock, deep quality to it. “Mais forca, Belmira.” More power. “I would brace myself on the rim of the barrel, jumping up and down until I thought my feet were going to fall off.”

The slate of her face pinched, her head tipping forward to stare at her shoes. “Anyway,” she forged, shoulders squaring off, “he’d always let me sample the fruits of our labor a few weeks later, but I never developed a palate for alcohol. It’s bitter. Plus…” she hesitated, lifting her chin. “My ma is… unpleasant when she’s had too much to drink, and I never wanted that for myself.” She faltered, realizing she’d told me more than she’d intended, but I hung on to every word, every pause, every shift with a rapt focus. No detail was too small to matter. I wanted to hear about her childhood, how she’d been raised, and learn her stories like I’d lived them with her.

“Can I ask…?” I tested softly, hoping the indirect approach would yield me an answer about her dad.

Belmira chewed on the inside of her cheeks for a beat. “He’s in Portugal,” she replied curtly. “He left a couple of years ago on a solo trip and never came back. Last I heard, he’s holed up with his mistress.”

No fear of flying, just a raging abandonment wound thanks to her dad. Everything was beginning to make sense.

“Scared yet?” she questioned, voice unsteady.

“Of?”

“My baggage.” Her betraying mouth trembled, ceasing only when she pinched her lips together. “I have no shortage of it.”

“None of us do, Bel. That doesn’t scare me.”

She considered it, looking at a napkin someone had dropped on the floor. “Maybe it should.”

“If this is your way of trying to run me off,” I said, leaning closer to her ear, “it’s not going to work. You’ll have to try harder.” A hell of a lot harder.

Her profile tensed, and she tugged at the neckline of her dress.

“I am sorry, though,” I added, hesitating for a beat. “That he left.”

“It’s fine,” she replied quickly with the flash of an unsteady smile and a dismissive fan of her hand.

“It’s not.” None of it was fine. Not by a long shot.

Depthless dark eyes watered over—had no one ever told her she didn’t have to maintain a brave front? She blinked furiously, embarrassed by the display of emotion. “He’s happy now, I guess.” She nodded twice, swiping a knuckle under both eyes quickly. “That’s what matters.”

“And you?”

Puzzlement etched in the soft arches of her face. “And me, what?”

“Are you happy?”

It was a loaded question, too big to be dwindled down into a simple yes or no, but the quality of our happiness was a baseline for everything we did in life. It was what kept us going during our darkest hour. We all needed a why.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever known what that word means,” she confessed, her distant stare skirting elsewhere, withdrawing from me again.

What did she crave the most from life? What made her tick? Had anyone ever asked her before? Had she ever known the security of feeling safe enough to let her guard down, to be vulnerable?

I’d change that. Belmira deserved to know how good happiness could feel. Not from material objects or trivial things like taking her to a movie, but from the enduring knowledge that someone cared enough about her and that her heart would always be safe. Someone who celebrated her rather than muzzled her.

That was true happiness—having the space to feel every emotion, to be who you were, and knowing there were people who loved you for it.

I stiffened. Love…? Had she ever known what it was like to be in love? I didn’t, but maybe—I studied her profile, my thoughts wandering off to a Vegas elopement again—we could change that together.

God, what the fuck was wrong with me, and why didn’t that freak me out?

It was supposed to freak me out… right?

But it didn’t. Not even a little. Why was it so easy with her in a way it never had been with anyone else? I wasn’t proud of how many girls I’d fooled around with. I didn’t like the gossip that followed or pissing Ma off. I hated cleaning the interior of my car and finding an unwelcomed memento from the weekend prior in the form of lost lipstick under my car seat or an earring backing. Repulsion roiled my stomach when I collected the foiled edge of a condom wrapper that never made it to the trash because I’d torn it open with my teeth and spit the frayed aluminum away. It was another nauseating souvenir, triggering me to recall what I’d done—and with who—like I’d needed one more reminder I was impatient and eager to get lost in someone else just to not hear myself think for a while, week after week, year after year. Public opinion be damned.

But with Belmira? A girl I had subconsciously searched for?

It felt natural. Organic. Right. Predestined. I wasn’t letting that go for anything.

She startled when the bartender’s firm knuckles rapped against the counter to get our attention, and we spotted our drinks. Feeding a few dollar bills I had in my pocket into a cup marked Tips , he made a show of saluting his thanks with two fingers launching from his temple.

I handed Belmira her drink first before grabbing the neck of the beer bottle. She knocked her glass against my beer bottle in the form of an awkward “cheers”, her lips folding around the straw, taking long pulls from the drink.

She made a face, releasing the straw from the beautiful trap of her mouth, her head tilting to the right with consideration, like she wasn’t sure what to make of the taste.

Laughing, I asked, “Don’t like it?” She smacked her lips together with distaste. That was definitely a ‘no’. “I can get you something else.”

“It’s not that.” Her tongue swept along her cheeks, nose crinkling. “There’s pulp in that orange juice.”

Pulp. A crime upon humankind. She was fucking adorable. “Not a pulp girl?”

Her glare found the offending carton of juice behind the bar. “Liquids should not be gritty.”

I chuckled. “Agreed. Maybe you want a Moscow mule?”

“What’s that?” She captured the straw again, eyeing me under the long curl of her lashes while she sipped, the column of her elegant throat working with each swallow.

“Ginger beer, vodka, and lime juice.” I watched her, utterly mesmerized and, consequently, unaware of the lewd trajectory my mind had wandered off to again.

She’d look incredible kneeling between my legs, her enthusiastic mouth bobbing along my shaft, delighted moans a vibrating hum, while her hands alternated between skimming and clawing at my thighs, as though directing me to finish on the back of her tongue.

A gnawing ache settled in my stomach, and my balls hitched while lust drowned my common sense. Oh, fuck.

Common sense had never done me any favors. Why bother now?

Each feverish pull from her straw, accompanied by the quick shifting of her throat, mimicked the way it would when she coaxed me over the edge, swallowing thick ropes of my cu— nope .

Nope. Nope. No . Absolutely fucking not. Panicked and overheated, I took a generous swig from my beer, my audible breathing charging fast through my nose.

Yeah. This was going to be harder than I thought. A lot harder.

She probably hadn’t ever… I mean…

Belmira looked too sweet and wholesome to know what to do with it, too shy to do something so dirty, and yet… when I flicked my eyes back to her face, she had taken to playing with the straw, tracing the silhouette of her mouth with it absently, lost in her own thoughts—though I’d wager considerably less debauched than my own—pausing to swipe her tongue along her bare lips to collect any traces of her drink.

“I think this is growing on me,” she decided. “The pulp is kind of a surprise with each slurp. You don’t know how thick it's going to be until you swallow.”

I looked heavenward. Are you there, Satan? It’s me, Felix. The asshole from Fall River fighting the hard-on of his life.

If I didn’t walk this semi off soon—and by soon, I meant now —the obvious would be abundantly apparent to her and everyone else in this room.

Belmira polished off the drink with two final slurps before holding the empty glass upright. “I think I’d like another, please.”

I fumbled for the glass, rushing to the bar, determined to get the blood flow moving in my body again. Or hide for a bit. “You got it.”