Prologue
NINETIES MARC ANTHONY VOCALS filter through my flimsy bedroom door, alerting me that at least one of my parents is up and cleaning our modest Upper West Side apartment. And by cleaning, I mean beating the baseboards with a Swiffer.
And byourapartment, I meantheirapartment. The one I am currently squatting in… indefinitely. Because nothing screams thriving twenty-five-year-old quite like still living with one’s parents. But what can I say? I have an aversion to New York City rent prices and the idea of adulting in general. Sue me.
Lies.
You know why you’re still here, the voice in my head reminds me. As if I couldn’t google my name and remember all the ways my past still haunts me. How the actions of another keep me tethered to the only people who make me feel safe and unjudged.
I huff out a frustrated breath.
Not this shit again.
I lift my head and scour my bedding to find where my Kindle landed after I dozed off last night. Because, like most nights, I fell asleep way too late feeding myself that “just one more chapter before I go to bed” lie.
Reading seems to be the only thing that can take me out of my head and transport me into another world. One where I’m not Isabella Morales, the girl whose fall from grace was everyone’s water cooler chatter, each headline slowly bleeding me dry of my sanity, and quite frankly, my desire to ever fall in love again.
Which is why romance books are my haven. A place where I can be a spectator, because the romance genre isn’t just about two people falling in love. It’s a safe space to learn about how people of diverse backgrounds go through transformations that happen to align with meeting the loves of their lives. Something I never plan to let happen to me, because while I can’t rewrite the pages of my past, I can absolutely keep the reins to my heart tighter than the heroine in the cowboy romance I binged last night.
Because I, under no circumstances, will ever fall for a man’s false promises again.
Mark my words.
one
“Buenos días, Mami.” Ipress a quick kiss on my mother’s cheek and dart out of her reach before she has the chance to poke me with whatever cleaning weapon she has at her disposal. Dominican mothers, especially Claribel Morales, have a way of getting creative with the greetings they give their children. I would drop dead if my mother hugged me and said, “Good morning, sweetie.” I’m much more accustomed to the disgruntled mumblings about how back in her heyday, she would have to walk seven miles to a convenience store or ride aburroto school.
I’m pretty sure only one of those is a lie.
Essentially, I’m usually greeted with a dash of grump and a heavy serving of attitude. All in love, of course. Because my immigrant parents tend to show their love through acts of service, not words of affirmation. At least that’s what my many years of therapy have taught me to understand.
So color me surprised when my mother simply smiles at me, and says, “Hola, mija. Any plans for today?”
I halt midway to grab an apple from the kitchen and spin on my heel, eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? Are you sick? Did Abuela die?” My voice hitches as I run through the potential scenarios that would cause my mom to give me such a calm greeting.
My mom’s shoulders drop as she rolls her eyes. “¿Viste? This generation talks about wanting gentle parenting, pero when I do it…” She waves the rest of her comment away in mock annoyance.
Suspicion laces my voice as I say, “So, you were trying to ‘gentle parent’ me, a woman in her mid-twenties?”
“Mira, I didn’t read the whole article you sent me the other day, okay? So I didn’t know there was an age cutoff. I just wanted to talk to you about something.” I gesture for her to go on, which is unusual in and of itself, since the woman can carry a whole conversation on her own. “So, Mateo is still looking for a nanny, and Anna is starting school soon—”
“Mami.” I groan. Not this again.
My mother has been trying to get me to nanny full time for her best friend’s son ever since I stepped in to nanny for a few days during a New Year’s Eve trip down in the Dominican Republic. Mateo’s mom had to cancel at the last minute due to a medical procedure. But Anna had been looking forward to quality time with her dad before things got busy, so calling off the trip was a no-go. Mateo still had vital work calls scheduled, therefore he needed part-time child care. Which was me, in a pool chair lounger, tanning while judging a five-year-old’s underwater handstands. Truly living the dream.
But that was a onetime gig.
I have my own job to think about. Even though it’s a far cry from my dream job.
Because I’ll be honest, working as an assistant librarian at the New York Public Library isn’t exactly lining my pockets. It’s more like a pity volunteer position with a tiny stipend. But it allows me to be surrounded by books. And more importantly, book covers.
Ever since I fell down the rabbit hole of collecting paperback copies of my favorite books, I’ve rediscovered my love for graphic design. When I have a free moment in the library, I can be found creating an alternative cover for my latest read. And while some may consider my hobby glorified doodling, I think of it as a potential career path. If I can finally get my online book cover design business off the ground, I would be the happiest human on the planet.
I work under a pseudonym and use an illustrated profile pic for privacy reasons. Unfortunately, the pipeline of book cover requests is mighty dry at the moment over at Bella Covers. Which is probably why my mom keeps needling me to take the job as a nanny for Mateo.
The problem is thatMateois Mateo Martinez, a.k.a. the starting pitcher of the New York Monarchs and probably one of the most talented and famous athletes of our generation.
So yeah, big fucking deal.
