“I’m looking forward to working with you,” Ben added.
“Likewise,” Julia answered.
She took a deep breath, willing the picaflores flapping their little hummingbird wings in her belly to calm. Unfortunately, her deep breath brought her senses in close and personal contact with the hint of his woodsy cologne, its spicy undertones heightening her awareness of him.
All of a sudden she found herself needing to repeat the reminder she had shared with Carol earlier. This time, for her own good.
Ben Thomas was just like every other guy. No need to go all boba over him. She didn’t do boy crazy. Ever.
It was simply a matter of remembering: Pants. One leg at a time.
* * *
Ben tried hard to keep his focus on the details Laura Taylor, Jeff Louis, and the rest of the committee discussed throughout the meeting. Hell, he was a master at focusing. Ask any of his old teammates. Nothing got him out of the zone unless he wanted it to.
Problem was, right now his zone seemed to be honed in on one Julia Fernandez. It had been since he’d walked into the conference room barely thirty minutes ago.
Not only because her petite frame, delicate features, and wavy, long, black hair had made him take a second look, then a third, followed by a . . . hell he’d lost count.
While he hadn’t been able to stop glancing at her, though, she never seemed to have trouble not looking his way. Barely making eye contact. A hair shy of aloof.
He wasn’t used to women not being interested in him.
As soon as the thought flashed through his mind, he pulled up short.
It wasn’t that he expected to be the center of attention. In fact, most of the time he worked hard to go incognito and avoid recognition.
With Julia, though, something made him want her to take notice.
Something more than her attractiveness.
It was the confidence she exuded as she brought the committee up to date on several tasks for the event.
It was the way she praised others, acknowledging their efforts.
It was the slight lilt to her words. The touch of her Spanish accent that reminded him of home and growing up surrounded by the Cuban influence in Miami.
His first real crush had been his buddy Octavio’s older sister, Amada. A short-lived crush as she’d become more like a sister since Octavio’s place had become Ben’s second home, his teammate’s family semi-adopting him once the two boys started playing select ball together and it became apparent that Ben’s parents weren’t around much.
Two professors, Ben’s mom and dad had always been elbow-deep in their research. Oh, they’d been supportive, more or less encouraging him to pursue his goals. They simply hadn’t truly connected with him in sharing his love for the sport.
His “family” dinner experiences had taken place around the Ramos’s table. That’s where his affinity for Latin food, Cuban food in particular, had been born.
Listening to Julia talk about her plans for the holiday fund-raiser, all with a Latino flair, heightened his melancholy for the loss of family and sense of home he’d been dealing with since his forced retirement from playing ball.
“Since the funds raised at this year’s event will benefit the Humboldt Park Youth Center, which serves a large Hispanic community, the entertainment will feature the kids giving a pseudo rendition of a parranda or a posada,” Julia told him, her Spanish accent hugging the words.
“I hate to admit that I had never heard of a parranda before,” Jeff Louis said. The middle-aged bank executive had removed his suit jacket and now leaned back in the black leather chair, his expression earnest. “Despite the number of Hispanic kids and families we serve. Makes me realize I have a lot more to learn.”
That’s what Ben liked about working with this committee and the Chicago Youth Association’s auxiliary board in general. They were comprised of individuals who were committed to their mission statement and the children.
“Now a posada, yes,” Jeff continued, smoothing a hand down his tie. “I’m familiar with that Mexican tradition. People caroling from house to house like a parranda, but with statues of Mary and Joseph. Like they’re seeking shelter. I think introducing the cultural aspects, both the Puerto Rican caroling with the parranda and the Mexican posada, will enrich the event.”
“Exactly.” Laura Taylor gave a firm nod. “Having the kids as the singers is a beautiful touch. We’ve never featured the youth in the past and they’re the reason why we’re here. Why we do what we do, right?”
Hands clasped on the slick black tabletop, the older woman looked around at each of the members present. Answering nods of agreement along with a murmured, “Damn straight,” from Dan Roberts, a local builder, met her perusal.
With her blond hair smoothed back in a tight bun low on her head, Laura looked the epitome of the high society matron often featured in the local pages of the paper. Straight-laced, savvy, and dedicated to the charities she worked hard to assist.
Ben had met her during his rookie season with the Cubs when he’d volunteered for a youth baseball clinic. Now, eight years later, he was still involved with helping out Chicago youth.
Actually, thanks to Laura’s uncanny ability to lure a person into her world of volunteerism and civic duty, he’d kept his head above water—barely—the past few years of injury, surgery, rehab, and ultimately, early retirement.
Between his work with the youth centers and his burgeoning sports-casting career, he was putting one foot in front of the other. Not dwelling on the what ifs, should haves, and if onlys. Most days, anyway.
“When I first met Julia at a family gathering over Labor Day weekend and heard about her background in event planning in Puerto Rico, I mentioned the upcoming soiree,” Laura said, drawing Ben’s attention to the beautiful woman
