Lynda Sandoval: One Perfect Man

Part of it was her age, he knew. Kids went wacky during the middle-school years. Part of it was hormones, something he didn’t want to think about in relation to his baby girl. He needed to accept the fact that Hope wasn’t a baby anymore, however, and that sometimes young ladies acted…mysterious. Detached. More confusing the closer they came to womanhood—the nature of the beast. He pictured her and smiled with equal parts love, fatherly concern and sympathy, remembering age fourteen only too well. It wasn’t so many years since he’d been there, considering he’d been little more than a child himself when Hope had come along.

But he wasn’t the child anymore, he was the parent, and it was his responsibility to fix things, to make life perfect for his daughter. All that mattered was her happiness, and, much as he hated to admit it, the lady standing at the front of the small conference room could be the answer to his prayers. He wouldn’t allow stubborn pride to keep him from reaching out to her. No. He’d buck up and solicit her help, no matter how galling it was to admit his parental shortcomings. He’d do anything for Hope, even go into debt, even swallow his own foolish pride.

Calmer, more determined, he took in a breath and tracked Ms. Gonçalves’s smooth, efficient movements with his eyes, feeling better by the moment. If anyone could pull this off, she could. Everything would work out, and his daughter would magically revert back into the adoring, open, happy girl she had once been.

Pride swallowed. Help accepted.

Problem solved. Balance restored.

Hope and Daddy against the world once again.

The meeting had gone well. Erica smiled to herself as she organized her notes. Creating a statewide cultural arts festival out of thin air and big dreams was a monstrous undertaking, but luckily the artisans she’d brought on board were not only talented but creative and enthusiastic, as well. The firm had a full team of event planners working on the festival, but the art included was the most important part, and Erica was in charge of finding appropriate artisans. She felt good about it.

If the sculptor from Albuquerque could pull off his idea, if he got the scale right—and certainly he would—the whole festival would feel as if it were taking place outside, beneath New Mexico’s blue skies and a rainbow of hot-air balloons. The undertaking was so huge, so fresh, it bordered on arrogant. She loved it. They’d make history…not to mention national news, which suited her five-year plan perfectly. She’d take all the help she could get making a name for herself in this competitive business. That out-of-the-box creativity was exactly what Erica had hoped for when she called this final planning meeting. Now that all the decisions had been made, they could all focus on pulling this beast together.

A knock sounded on the conference-room door, yanking Erica out of her thoughts. She glanced up and frowned, then checked her watch as she crossed the room, certain that she had another half hour at least before she needed to vacate the meeting space.

At the door, she hesitated, her mother’s grave warnings bubbling up from somewhere in her subconscious. She smiled at the absurdity, but nonetheless asked, “Who is it?” before opening the door. She hoped the effort would win her a few respect-your-mother points in heaven.

“Tomás Garza,” came the deep but gentle voice from the other side of the door.

The piñatero? Her heart revved, remembering her surprise when she first saw him at the meeting. When she’d sent a letter requesting his participation in the festival, she had expected him to be an old, paunchy man. How wrong her preconceived notions had been.

He was a quiet, watchful man, but certainly not old. And not even close to paunchy. She’d guess him to be in his early thirties, with long dark hair he wore pulled back into an utilitarian ponytail. It managed to look ultramasculine and enticingly rebellious at the same time.

She’d found him attractive, sure. But he’d stuck in her mind mostly because he’d been so…still. Utterly still, like an animal. Alert, aware, taking it all in, and ready to bolt at any moment. She found it disconcerting. Maybe she was crazy, but she’d gotten the feeling that Tomás had watched her every move during the meeting. His body motionless, deceptively casual. Those unusual brown eyes tracking her like prey.

She shivered, then pushed the ridiculous emotions aside and pulled open the door. “Mr. Garza,” she said, by way of a greeting. “Did you forget something?” His eyes glowed almost, and she suddenly realized they reminded her of those polished tiger’s eye stones sold in a lot of the tourist shops.

“Please call me Tomás.”

“Tomás, then.” She splayed a hand on her chest. “And I’m Erica.”

He nodded. “I didn’t forget anything. I wondered if you might have a few minutes to talk.”

“I have a little less than thirty minutes before the hotel kicks me out of the room, but come on in.” She stepped back, motioning for him to enter. “Is this about the festival?”

He smoothed his palms together, a vaguely hungry look in his eyes. “Actually, I came to speak to you about a different matter. A more…personal matter.”

Personal? All of a sudden, Erica recalled the wink he’d so casually tossed her during the meeting. At the time, she prayed no one else had seen it. Now, she stiffened, imagining just what this personal matter of his involved. Why did this crap seem to happen to her on almost every job? She dressed professionally, didn’t exude flirtatious vibes, as far as she knew. She simply wanted to be taken seriously in her career, not treated like fresh meat everywhere she went. Was that too much to ask? She hated to admit to herself how disappointed she was to learn that the quiet piñatero was just another in a long line of men who viewed the work arena as one big singles bar.

Her chin lifted. “Mr. Garza—”

He cocked his head, friendly curiosity in his eyes. “I thought we’d moved on to first names?”

She sighed. “Tomás, then. Before you say anything further, I’d like to make it perfectly clear that I don’t date business associates. Ever.”

His eyes widened, then crinkled with amusement. “You think I’m hitting on you?” He paused a moment, then added, mostly to himself, “Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you, the way I phrased it.” His apologetic gaze met hers. “Ah…I’m almost flattered, Erica. But it’s not that kind of personal matter.” He held up his hands, palms forward, in a gesture of surrender. “I would never be so presumptuous. Sorry if I gave you that impression.”

Oh, God. Mortification oozed from her brain through her body like hot lava, miring her in its fiery thickness. The words were out there. She couldn’t snatch them back. She had to simply save face as best she could. “I, uh, owe you an apology, then. Clearly. It’s just that sometimes—”

“Don’t worry,” he said, holding up a hand. “I understand. I’m sure men come on to you all the time.”

“Not…all the time.” Ugh, she could perish.

“Well.” His eyes smiled, but his mouth managed to remain serious and sincere. “Rest assured, me hitting on you is one thing you’ll never have to worry about, Erica. Promise.”

Never? Realization cut through her mind, and with it came a deeper gouge of humiliation. God, it just kept getting better, didn’t it? Why hadn’t she paid closer attention? She’d been too damn busy noticing how unexpectedly young and attractive the piñatero was to realize—

How uncharacteristically narrow-minded of her.

She worked with people in the arts community all the time, she should know better than to assume. Clearly, Tomás Garza was gay, and here she’d accused him of—oh, Lord. She really did want to shrivel up and die. She knew no other way to recover from this social gaffe other than just…sucking it up and admitting she’d acted like an ass.