She shifts her weight to the other foot. “Sofia and I aren’t related like that. I consider her an older sister, but it’s more like she adopted me.”
Hmmm. Interesting. Sofia didn’t say that when she warned me off Lola. “Okay, then answer me this. How long did it take you to get the eighteen grand?”
She taps her chin. “Let’s see, I started working right after graduation, so um, I guess just shy of a year.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Aftergraduation?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You graduate early?”
“No, why?” And the minute the question leaves her mouth, she clasps her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide above her hand.
Fucking. Busted.
I narrow my eyes at her and stand up. Lola was leaning on the counter but now stands straight, taking a step backward and away from me.
Closing the distance between us, I charge forward, and she presses her back to the refrigerator, leaving herself no safe retreat. “Something you wanna tell me, Iggy?” I ask.
“Um . . .” She looks down at her hands, twisting the hem of her shirt between her fingers.
Resting my forearm on the fridge above her head, I lift her chin with my free hand to force her eyes on me. “Lola? Tell me how old you are.”
She hesitates. “Nineteen,” she breathes out.
I let go of her chin, incredulous, and step back. Staring at her, I run both hands through my hair, pulling it back. “Why the fuck did Sofia tell me you’re a minor?” I roar.
Lola smiles. This is amusing to her. Then she shrugs. “Sofia? and Ileana . . . they’ve kinda turned into de facto older sisters to me this past year—since my parents passed. I think Sofia was just being a little overprotective.”
My eyes soften as I stare at her. Her parents are dead? Is this why her eyes are so dim? “I’m sorry about your parents,” I say lamely.
She smiles the most sad-looking smile I’ve ever seen. “Yeah. Me too.”
I try to change the subject again. I don’t want to be the reason for her to remember her grief. “Who is Ileana?”
“Oh, my roommate.”
I pace the kitchen. I don’t know what to do with all this information.
Then I try to shake off my next thought. Lola is fair game. I can pursue her if I want. She’s not jailbait. But sheisa distraction. One I can’t afford if I want Bren to take me seriously—or at the very least, not trade me back for fucking Milo. And I can’t forget this makes herlikeBren’s sister-in-law even if there’s no real relation.
And why do all these plain and simple facts make the thought of being with her all the more exciting?Stop it, I chastise myself.
I grab a beer from the fridge and drain it.
“Can I have one?” Lola asks from her new spot, sitting on one of the island stools.
I shake my head. The audacity! “So you aren’t a minor, but I do believe the drinking age in the states is still twenty-one.”
She taps her chin thoughtfully, flashing hot pink, chipped fingernails. “I’d like to argue a few points.” Her lips upturn into an amused smile. “One, I just did the job of ten people, so a beer sounds about the most refreshing thing in the world. Two, I’ve had beers before. And three, the crucial point here—I’m not American. I’m Mexican. And drinking age in Mexico is eighteen, so Iamof age to drink according to the laws of my country of origin—”
“Wait, you’re Mexican?” I ask, completely surprised by that information.
“Más que un nopal,” she says with a chuckle.
“What does that mean?”
“Yeah, Karl. I’m Mexican. My name is Dolores Beltran. That didn’t tip you off?” she teases.