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James pulls up in front of the Mercado just as the church bells start their noon chime. The town isn’t big, but it feels alive in the easy, neighborly way small Texas towns do. There’s a taco stand parked at the edge of the lot, a dog asleep in the shade of a pickup, and a radio playing some old love song in Spanish that Abuela hums along to without missing a beat.
“Seatbelt,” she says, even though they’ve already stopped.
“Yes, ma’am,” James replies automatically, unbuckling and grinning. He gets out first, circles around to her side, and offers his arm like they’re about to attend a ball instead of the weekly grocery run. She takes it with dramatic grace, head high.
Inside, she’s unstoppable. James pushes the cart like a loyal escort while she commands the aisles. “Tomates, not those, the ones at the bottom. Softer is sweeter,” she instructs, and he nods obediently, inspecting tomatoes as though they’re fine gems.
A couple of women from town stop her near the beans. “Buenos días, Doña Hernández,” one says, and her eyes immediately move to James.
“Ah,” Abuela beams, “este es mi hijo. Un poco pálido, pero trabaja duro.”
James freezes mid-reach for a bag of rice as the women smile and nod approvingly. He gives a little wave, cheeks pink. “Afternoon,” he says, voice caught between polite and embarrassed.
“Muy guapo,” one of them whispers as they leave.
Abuela pats his arm. “See? Even the ladies know. You’re handsome, Jamesito.”
He sighs, smiling helplessly. “You’re impossible.”
She ignores that and gestures toward the tortillas. “We need two packs. One for the week, one because when you come over you eat everything.”
“I don’t eat everything,” he protests, placing both packs in the cart anyway.
“Mm-hm. Last time I made tamales, you left with half the pot.”
“That was Danny’s fault,” he says quickly, trying to save face. “He told me to take them.”
“Your mouth was full when you said goodbye, mijo.”
He laughs then, and the sound earns him another approving look from the old man at the produce counter.
They wander down to the bakery next. The bell above the door jingles and warm air rushes out, full of sugar and cinnamon. Abuela picks a tray and tongs, handing them to him like she’s the queen assigning duties. “Three conchas, two empanadas, and the cuernitos, the ones with cream. Not the dry ones.”
James follows orders without complaint, stacking the pastries neatly. The woman behind the counter grins. “New son-in-law?”
Abuela doesn’t miss a beat. “No, no. My son. Just a little pale.”
James’s ears turn red immediately. “She says that every time,” he mutters to the counter, earning a laugh from the baker.
Outside again, he carries all the bags while Abuela strolls beside him, waving to everyone. “You spoil me, Jamesito,” she says.
He looks down at her, smiling. “Not sure anyone could spoil you more than you already spoil everyone else.”
At the clothing shop, she insists on picking shirts for him, Danny and Sherrinford. She holds up a flannel against James’s chest, tilts her head, and squints. “This one makes your eyes look nice. Blue, like cielo.”
He blushes again, muttering, “You sound like my mother.”
“I am your mother,” she says in English, proud and teasing. “You just didn’t know it yet.”
By the time they’re back in the car, the backseat is loaded with groceries, pastries, and a new pair of boots she swore he needed. The engine hums softly as he pulls onto the road. She sits content in the passenger seat, fanning herself with a coupon flyer.
After a while, she glances over. “You know, mijo, I see how you look at that Sharlingford boy.”
James’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He clears his throat. “You do, huh?”
“Claro que sí. You have that look, the one that says your heart’s already halfway given away.”
He exhales, watching the horizon. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like he’s just grateful I saved him. I can’t tell if there’s anything more.”
Abuela studies him for a moment, then reaches over and pats his cheek with that same motherly finality that ends all arguments. “You think too much. Gratitude fades. What’s left after that is what’s real. You’ll see.”
He glances her way, soft smile tugging at his mouth. “You should charge for this kind of wisdom.”
“Please. You couldn’t afford me.”
He laughs, and the sound fills the little car.
“Tonight,” she continues, “We’ll make chile rellanos. You take him some. Go sit under that big tree by the river. Talk. Eat. Maybe kiss him if he lets you.”
James chokes on a laugh. “Abuela!”
“What?” she says innocently. “If he’s smart, he’ll kiss you back.”
He shakes his head, laughing all the way home. She’s pleased with herself, humming softly while the sky burns gold over the town.
When they finally pull into the driveway, she squeezes his arm. “Gracias, Jamesito. For the ride, and for not letting me carry a single thing.”
He climbs out and grabs the bags, still grinning. “You’d have smacked me if I let you.”
“Exactly,” she says, giving him a playful pinch on the cheek before shuffling toward the porch. “Now go wash up. We’re making dinner.”
He watches her a second longer, the warmth of the day still sitting on his skin. “Yes, ma’am,” he says softly, following her inside.
The kitchen smells like heaven, or at least like home. Abuela’s already halfway through the prep by the time James shows up, sleeves rolled, hair slightly damp from the shower.
“Good, you’re here,” she says, waving him toward the counter. “Wash your hands. We’re making your chile rellanos.”
He obeys without a word. Every time he tries to help, she acts like it’s a military operation. A delicious one, but still.
“Now,” she begins, “we roast the chiles until the skin blisters. You don’t walk away. You watch.” She narrows her eyes for emphasis.
He salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Abuela smirks. “Don’t sass me, Jamesito. Grab the tongs.”
He does, carefully flipping the peppers as they hiss against the pan. “So this is the secret weapon I’m taking to win Sherrinford over?”
She laughs, delighted. “Ay, you already know. Food is love, mijo. And if he doesn’t love this, maybe he’s not human.”
James chuckles. “Sometimes I’m not sure he is.”
“Then feed him twice,” she says firmly.
Once the peppers are roasted, she shows him how to peel them just right: gently, no tearing. “Like this,” she says, her fingers steady despite her age. “Be kind to the pepper. It’s soft inside.”
James snorts. “That’s oddly poetic for someone who just threatened to whack me with a spoon.”
“You weren’t listening,” she fires back, wagging said spoon at him.
He grins, head ducking. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”
“Good. Fear makes the food taste better.”
When the peppers are finally stuffed, dipped, and fried to golden perfection, she slides one onto a plate and pushes it toward him. “Taste.”
He takes a cautious bite, then closes his eyes. “Okay, yeah. That’s dangerously good.”
Abuela looks pleased, then points the spoon again. “You take these to that pretty boy. No excuses. You find a nice place by the river. You talk. You listen. And if he looks at you like he wants to kiss you, don’t wait for him to grow old doing it.”
“Abuela,” he groans, running a hand over his face. “You’re relentless.”
“Love is work, mijo. And you’re good at hard work.”
He can’t argue with that. She pats his cheek, the same way she always does when she’s done lecturing.
“Now,” she says, turning back to the stove, “you clean the dishes. That’s also love.”
James laughs under his breath, grabbing a towel. “You just want a free dishwasher.”
“Sí, but I’m cute, so it works.”
He shakes his head, smiling as he scrubs. There’s something warm about the whole thing. The smell, the laughter, her bossy affection. For once, he doesn’t feel like James Sterling III, the man who plans and hides and calculates. He’s just Jamesito, in a kitchen filled with love and chiles, learning that maybe his Abuela’s right.