Standing, I cross the space in a couple of strides, extending my hand toward the main man in Layla’s life. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Roberto, please,” he says, clasping his hand with mine, no sign of animosity or dominance in his grip. “It’s nice to meet you too, Teagan. Looks like you’ve been taking good care of my baby girl.”
“Aye, that’s the goal.” He doesn’t need to knowallof the ways I take care of his daughter.
An older gentleman shuffles out from behind Roberto, white bushy brows raised in surprise as he looks me over. Clearly I’m not what he was expecting his granddaughter to bring home.
“Hello, sir. Pleasure to meet you.” I hold my hand out for him to shake, but instead of the customary greeting, he traps my hand between both of his. I can feel the calluses he earned from years of hard labor as he built a life for his family. The wrinkles from age and sun mingle with scars he’s acquired from what I can only hope is from working and not violence incurred during their immigration.
Layla gave me a brief rundown of her family history before arriving in her hometown. Having been born and raised in Mexico, they didn’t venture to the States until they were well into adulthood. During that time, it was exceptionally daunting to make the trek across the border as many Americans accused them of stealing their jobs and taking advantage of the welfare system. Never mind the fact that the jobs they were acceptingwere the ones Americans didn’t want because of low wages and social status. While I am an immigrant of sorts, I’m not a minority, so my transition was smooth sailing, whereas theirs was considerably more challenging. More often than not, Mexican migrants were victims of muggings because attackers knew that undocumented individuals would refrain from reporting the violence because of their unauthorized status.
As Layla’s grandfather holds my hand in his, he examines it. Looking for what, I don’t know, but he must have found something satisfactory because he scans my face, holding my gaze for a moment before nodding. He turns to Layla and says something in Spanish causing her eyes to widen and lips curl into a sweet smile. When she glances back at me, I give her an inquisitive look, but she just shakes her head.
* * *
“We’re going to the rodeo tonight. I hope you brought your boots, Teagan.”
Marcos showed up not long after Layla’s father and grandfather and greeted me like an old friend, pulling me in for a one-armed hug and a whispered, “you ready to run for the hills yet?” I shook my head, laughing, because while the Diaz family is loud and lively, they’re also kind and involved. None of the conversations have felt forced or awkward, aside from Layla’s mom telling us to have babies, and even that was tolerable for me. Layla wasn’t amused. She’s apologized repeatedly for her mom’s behavior.
“Erm…I didn’t bring any boots with me. Just my runners. Those will work, yeah?”
Marcos wedges himself on the sofa between his mother and grandmother, earning him a playful slap on the arms from each of them.
“Sure,” he says with a shrug. “You ever been to a rodeo, Teag? There’s a reason we wear cowboy boots, and it’s not just to look good.”
For the first time since arriving, I’m actually feeling slightly nervous. Growing up on a sheep farm has given me enough experience to know to watch your step around the livestock, but I’m gathering that a rodeo in Texasisn’t even remotely close to raising sheep in Ireland.
“So, what you’re saying is that I need to go shopping?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Layla
I’ve been sitting in our backyard with my sisters waiting for Teagan to finish getting ready for the last half-hour. It’s unusual for him to take this long. He was a good sport about Marcos’ teasing, but I could tell he was feeling apprehensive. I tried to get us out of going, but my parents managed to convince us to accompany them to the rodeo tonight. As a teen, I always enjoyed going, but taking my Irishman to a Texas rodeo seems so out of place. He’s a farm boy, not a cowboy.
“What’s taking him so long?” I mutter to myself, but the twins hear me and start giggling. I glare suspiciously at them. “What?”
“Nothing,” they sing in unison.
“¡Mentirosas! You forget that I know your tells. Fess up.”
Before they can respond, the screen door squeaks open and we all turn inour patio chairs, a collective gasp spilling from our mouths.
Ó—ra—le.
Teagan in a cowboy hat is something I didn’t know I needed until right this minute. When he told me he was going to talk my brothers into lending them one of theirs, I thought he was joking. The white hat sits securely on his head, strands of his brown hair curling beneath the rim. He didn’t just stop at the hat though. Clad in black jeans that hug him perfectly, a huge, silver belt buckle, and a trim-fit, short-sleeved denim shirt that is unbuttoned enough to show off the smattering of hair on his chest. And boots! He’s wearing cowboy boots! He looks hot as fuck and I’m really regretting that we agreed to go with my family tonight. If I could work out a way for us to stay—or to arrive later—without raising suspicion, I’d do it.
Pinching the brim of the hat, he winks before nodding his head. “Ma’am.”
En la madre. I’m speechless.
The silence stretches and he starts to fidget nervously, a flush creeping up his neck. “Um…is it too much?”
“No,” I say in a rush, standing to move toward him. “It’s just a…uh…shock to the system.”
His smile falls and it breaks my heart.
“No!” I cup his cheeks in my hands. “You look amazing, Teagan.”
