Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 107660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Unable to focus on the details, I flipped the pages, finding faded recipe cards, a CD slid into a pocket taped to a page, photos of her when she was little.
Photos of us.
All surrounded by passages I was too scared to read.
“She must have put it together when she was sick,” he guessed. “Maybe she’d been putting it together longer than that. I’m not sure, but I do know that she wanted you to have it so you could know and be proud of your culture. More than that, she wanted you to have a place to go to when you needed her words, and she couldn’t be there. She wanted to create a place to remind you that you are more than you think you are. She wanted to remind you to not pigeon-hole yourself into one thing without experiencing life and everything it has to offer.”
The fire crept up the back of my throat, and I tried to swallow it down, but the more I saw her smiling face, or her arms wrapped around me, the more the fire grew beyond my control.
I snapped the book closed and wrapped the cord around the casing, again and again, as if each coil added another layer of protection between me and my emotions. I swallowed one more time before meeting my father’s gaze. “Thank you for this, but it doesn’t mean you have to sell the company to a stranger. You don’t have to do this.”
“Aspen…” Sigh number four.
Guilt pressed in harder and almost broke through, but got shoved aside by desperation when I saw his jaw harden.
He’d made up his mind.
Panic gripped my throat. I dropped the pretense of trying to be a mature woman talking to her boss and pressed my palm against the polished wood I’d loved since I was a little girl. I leaned over and talked to him like his daughter.
“Please, Dad. Don’t take this from me.”
He peered across the space, his brilliant green eyes shining with the same look they gave me when he wouldn’t let me go on an unchaperoned trip to the beach when I was sixteen. Apologetic but firm with the knowledge he was doing what was best for me, no matter how much I argued.
But I wasn’t a teen anymore. I didn’t need my dad making decisions he thought were best. I needed him to trust me to live my own life.
“I’m not taking the company from you, Aspen. I’m…pausing it.”
Pausing? Confusion pinched my face. “What does that mean?”
His eyes flicked behind me at the click of the door opening and closing, letting me know our time alone was up.
“It’s…a lot to explain,” my father hedged before changing course and forcing another smile. “Why don’t you, me, and Lucian all go to dinner at Raíces? We can review the details there.”
“No,” I blurted, stepping back. “I don’t want to sit with some stranger while you give away our family company. I wanted you to talk to me before you made such a massive decision that impacts my life. I want you to reconsider before going through with anything.”
“It’s already done.” Mr. Daire’s—Lucian’s—deep voice delivered the death knell. A sucker punch from behind that knocked the wind from my lungs and stole any other pleas I had for my father.
I took a step back. And then another and another.
Angry breaths clawed at my lungs.
Muscles in my jaw cramped under the tension.
Crescents dug into my palm from my tight fist.
Worst of all…the fire burned beyond the back of my throat until it pricked at my eyes. I whipped my glare from one man to the other one last time before storming out just as fiercely as I entered.
The ball of emotions climbed higher, only serving to piss me off more.
I hated the loss of control closing in.
I hated that it weakened the weapon I’d sharpened my emotions into.
I hated that sometimes it took on a life of its own and the final storm sucked me into a whirlwind I couldn’t control. So, before anyone could catch sight and doubt the strong, impenetrable woman I was at work, I stormed to my office.
As soon as the door shut, I dropped the book on my desk before lunging for the mini-fridge and grabbing a cold bottle of water. I took deep gulps, trying to relax the tension squeezing my throat. I rolled my shoulders and stretched my neck. I inhaled slow, deep breaths. I used every tool I’d learned over the years. I did them again and again until my muscles unkinked one knot at a time, and the pressure abated from around my chest, leaving behind the familiar disappointment of losing control.
I’d learned at a young age to curb my reactions. Throughout school, people took one look at my Hispanic mother and used it to judge me against their stereotypes—mocking me for my “spicy” personality. I hated it.