Claiming Carlos (Sanchez Sisters) Read online

  CLAIMING CARLOS

  Rachelle Ayala

  Amiga Books

  Smashwords Edition

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  “The chemistry is oh so there!” – Say Medina

  “A crazy ride … food, secrets, and juicy romance.”

  – Stefanie J. Pristavu

  “Hot and strong, just like Choco and Carlos.”

  – Vera Neves

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  Dedication

  To all the Big Sisters, Ates, Manangs, Da-Jies of the world.

  Set a good example!

  Copyright © 2014 by Rachelle Ayala

  All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition

  ISBN: 9781310869242

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real events or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All trademarks belong to their respective holders and are used without permission under trademark fair use.

  The named songs belong to their rights holders and artists. No lyrics are quoted and no rights are infringed.

  Cover design by C. & K. Creations https://www.facebook.com/CKCreationsOfficial

  Subscribe to mailing list for upcoming books and giveaways. http://eepurl.com/lR5kv

  Contact Rachelle at http://rachelleayala.me/author-bio/contact/

  Book Description

  “Sexy & hilarious foodie romance -- too hot in the kitchen.”

  Choco Sanchez is stuck in a rut. She's never hit a softball and has been friends forever with Carlos Lopez, the head cook at her family's Filipino restaurant. When flashy restaurant consultant Johnny Dee hits her with a pitch, she falls head over heels and gets a makeover.

  Carlos Lopez is not about to lose one for the home team. Johnny launches a full scale change on the menu, and Carlos sends him straight into the dumpster. Claiming Choco's heart proves more difficult, especially when her secrets threaten to doom their love. But never underestimate a man who can cook hot, spicy, and steamy, and we ain't talking just food.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Part I - Choco

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part II - Carlos

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part III - Choco

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part IV – Carlos

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part V – Choco

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Part VI - Carlos

  Chapter 35

  Part VII – Choco

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part VIII - Carlos

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Part IX – Choco

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Rachelle

  Part I - Choco / Chapter 1

  “Hey, batter, batter, batter,” I jeer at Cocky Carlos, the cleanup hitter on our amateur softball team.

  He flips me the bird and I flip one back, shaking my hips and pursing my lips in an eff-you snarl.

  “Choco!” My cousin Julia elbows me and points. “Tita Gloria’s in the stands. You should be more ladylike.”

  “Str-ike one,” the umpire growls.

  “Ha, ha, he’s gonna screwball you next.” I cup my hands and bounce up and down on my heels.

  “Why do we call you Chokin’ Choco again?” Carlos sticks out his tongue.

  Oh, so he thinks he can get me with that slippery tongue wiggle. Huh!

  “Strike out, strike out.” I wave both hands and do the chicken dance.

  “Sit down,” Julia hisses. “I swear, you’re embarrassing.”

  I flap my shirt to fan myself before sitting down. The sun peeks from behind a single cloud, and the temperature’s rising. Gonna be a hot night without the marine layer, although it never boils in San Diego, not even mid-summer.

  “Whew! I’m sweating up a storm.” I rub my hands on my sweatpants.

  “Don’t you want us to win?” Julia whines.

  “Not so I have to suffer his bragging at happy hour.” I lower the brim to my cap. “Besides, check out the new pitcher.”

  “He’s on the other team.” Julia huffs. “But then again, I could get used to that stretch and delivery.”

  “He’s hot, isn’t he?” I’m sure every pair of female eyes is on the pitcher as he wallops the ball toward home plate.

  All except Tita Gloria, since Carlos is her son, but me and every other boob owner has got to be drooling over the smooth looks of the new man in town.

  He peers at the plate, his pitching hand hidden in his glove. He raises his hands, bends, and does the stretch before rotating his arm in a perfect circle for a fast underhanded softball pitch. Whoosh.

  “Strike two!” the umpire shouts after Carlos takes a serious swipe and misses.

  The runners on first and third jog nervously. The other team is ahead by one. It’s the bottom of the seventh, the last inning in our shortened game. Two outs.

  “Ha, ha!” I stick two fingers in my mouth and whistle. “He can cook, but can he hit?”

  My father thumps me on the head. Maybe I better shut up and cheer for our team, the Barrio Barracudas, sponsored by my family’s Filipino restaurant, the fabulous Barrio XO, located in downtown San Diego within view of Padre Stadium, or officially, Petco Park. “Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. We’re bad, uh huh, uh huh.”

  Papa rolls his eyes. “Choco, does your mouth ever stop moving?”

  “Pah!” I exhale and turn my attention to our hunky cleanup batter.

  Carlos’s features are authentic Pinoy, dark straight eyebrows, a broad nose, high cheekbones and a wide, kissable mouth over a cleft chin.

  Not that I’m drooling over him. Oh no. He’s my best friend ever, and even though I admire his muscles and build, and he’s the sweetest guy I know, he works for my father and hasn’t shown the least bit of interest in me.

  The man of the moment stretches his solid shoulders and swings his wooden bat around viciously, then steps back into the batter’s box.

  The opposing pitcher, a hot, lean specimen of the male persuasion, licks his lips and bends for the catcher’s sign. He peers at Carlos as if deciding which side of him he’s going to filet first. He swings his hands up, slides a long stride, and arcs the ball high and to the
side.

  Carlos checks his swing, and the umpire signals a ball.

  I let out a sympathetic “Ahh …”

  Even perfection takes a break, sometimes. Carlos is only one strike from ending the game. I can’t wait to pour beer over his head and commiserate with him, maybe get in a few noogies for good measure.

  The pitcher spits and shuffles his foot on the mound, but this time he doesn’t windup or anything. Instead he lobs the ball high and wide, forcing the catcher to step out to the side of the plate to nab it.

  What’s going on? Two more intentional balls, and Carlos throws the bat and jogs to first base.

  Oh no! The bases are loaded, and it’s my turn to bat. Sweat rings my collar. I’ve been playing softball in the Downtown Business League since ancient times, and I’ve never made it to first base, never on a hit. Seventeen years since Papa opened the restaurant and pushed us into the league. Is that the longest no-hit stretch or what?

  “You can do it.” Papa taps my shoulder and gives me a push. “Just one hit and we’re gold.”

  No one else on the team says anything. I can feel them groaning. I adjust my batting helmet and select a light bat, one I can handle without choking up.

  I glance at the spectators seated on the Cougar side. Their team, sponsored by Jim Castleton, owner of a business consulting firm, is full of tall, athletic men, unlike our team of waitresses, cooks, busboys, and bartenders.

  “Can’t we get a pinch hitter?” I look back at Papa.

  My teammates are eager to help. They raise their hands, waving at my father.

  He frowns and crosses his arms. “Against the rules. Pinch hitters are only for the pitcher. Go on.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have picked Choco, which rhymes with loco, as my nickname. It’s been a bane, a curse in every sporting event ever. I simply choked. It all started when I was three years old and cried every time someone said my real name, Concepción, a name every Filipina wants to be saddled with, yeah right. It’s said that I laughed whenever someone said ‘loco.’ My baby tongue couldn’t pronounce the ‘l’ and turned it into a ‘ch’ sound. Never mind, I’m distracting myself. And someone’s Spanish grammar is off because I’m female so I should be ‘loca.’

  “Do some practice swings first,” Papa yells.

  Yeah, yeah. I need a base hit to tie the game and a double, a miracle, to drive in the winning run.

  I take a few practice swings and pretend I’m stretching, that I’m tough. But when I get into that batting box, all I can see is the smirk curling the lip of the tall, athletic pitcher, a veritable Greek god with his sleek mestizo looks, mocking at mere mortal me, the dumpy chick with the chinita eyes.

  I get into position, bending over my knees as low as possible to present the smallest batting zone, hoping for a walk. At five foot even, I’m the shortest in my family, although I’m the oldest.

  The pitcher takes a long look at me, then lobs the ball in a slow arc. Hey, wait, we’re supposed to be playing fast pitch softball. The ball hangs high and slowly approaches the plate.

  Maybe I can get it. I know I can. I bounce off my heels. The pitcher’s so arrogant. He thinks I can’t hit, and he’s giving me a fat easy pitch.

  I lean forward and swing.

  “Strike one.”

  Behind me, my team moans. I try not to pay attention to the laughter. It must be coming from the other side. No one working at my father’s restaurant would laugh at me, would they?

  I get back into my low stance. I’m not going to swing. How stupid of me to get tricked into swinging at an obvious ball.

  The next pitch lobs toward home plate. It looks reachable. Perfect. But it’s probably a ball. It’ll curve the last minute. I wait.

  “Strike two.”

  Another collective groan of disappointment. Only Papa is shouting, “You can do it, Choke. Home run. Home run.”

  The pitcher smiles as he turns the ball in his hand. He shakes his head at me and lifts one eyebrow, then blows into his glove.

  Jerk. I don’t care how hot he is. He just dissed me. Now I’m mad.

  “Bring it on,” I yell. “Go ahead. Give me your best shot.”

  Oh, I can swagger like a bantam cock in a cockfight. And my yap is meaner than a Chihuahua on speed. Being the smallest and the oldest means I have to be tough even when it hurts.

  Adonis the Pitcher goes into the stretch and tosses the ball. It’s coming straight at me. Right at my bat. I visualize a home run. I can see myself hitting it, swatting it out of the park. I can hear the crowd cheering, feel the thrill of victory, the spotlight trained on me.

  I swing as hard as I can. Thud. The ball slams into the catcher’s mitt.

  “Strike three, you’re out.” The umpire jerks his thumb.

  How could I have missed? That softball was hanging like the moon. It could have been my first hit. I could have driven in the winning run. I could have been rounding the bases, slapping everyone’s hand. The crowd would have roared, and a little girl would have raised her mitt and caught my game winning home run. With stars in her eyes, she would have asked me to autograph it. My teammates would have lifted me on their shoulders and taken a victory lap, and confetti would be strewn in my wake.

  Instead, the Castleton Cougars high five and fist bump each other. The sparse showing of spectators on both sides scatter, and my teammates avoid my gaze while mumbling, “Nice try.” “Maybe next time.” “It’s only a game.”

  Papa clamps his arm around my shoulder and gives me a noogie. “That’s my girl. You almost got it there. Only a split second off.”

  Carlos struts by. “I’ll buy you a drink. What’ll you have?”

  As if I want a consolation drink from Carlos, who’s always the first to be picked on teams since he was in diapers.

  “No thanks.” I heave a sigh. “I’m going to skip. Nothing to celebrate.”

  “You’re the only reason I need for celebrating.” He tosses me a cheesy line. Ugh. Sucking up to my father who sponsors his work visa.

  “Sure, see you at the Hangout.” I wave him aside and walk with my father toward the car.

  “Do you really think I’ll ever hit that ball?” I ask my father. “Did you see how slow that jerkass pitcher was throwing at me? He zipped them fast for everyone else. Do I have loser written on my forehead?”

  “You’ll get a hit someday. I believe in you.” Papa turns me around. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Oh no. It’s the hottie, and I’m not wearing any makeup.

  The Castleton pitcher ambles toward us, his stride languid and smooth, like a well-endowed panther. His coffee brown eyes tour my body lazily, and one side of his mouth rises as if he finds something seriously wrong with me.

  “Mr. Sánchez,” the too gorgeous man who struck me out says to my father. “I’m delighted to be assigned to your business.”

  My father shakes the man’s hand and introduces us, “Mr. Dee, this is my eldest daughter, Concepción Sánchez. She manages Barrio XO on a day to day basis.”

  “How interesting. What have we here?” Dreamboat Dee offers his hand and smirks.

  I wonder if he’s related to the elderly Mr. David Dee who’s our restaurant’s best customer.

  Up close, he doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, and he’s smooth, so smooth, acting as if he knows something about me and isn’t telling.

  I grip his hand as hard as I can and give it a firm shake.

  “Call me Johnny.” The rascal doesn’t let go. Instead he caresses the back of my hand with his thumb while maintaining an innocent, detached look on his face.

  My father seems pleased with our meeting. “Johnny’s the consultant Castleton sent to help with our expansion plans. You’ll be working together to come up with a strategy for increasing our profitability and market share.”

  Johnny’s mouth widens into a sexy grin while my jaw drops.

  “Why do we need a consultant?” As far as I know, we’re profitable, and the expansion to San
Marcos will increase our geographical reach and market share automatically.

  Johnny raises my hand to his lips. “Allow me to explain. In business, as in baseball, you must hit what’s in front of you, when it’s in front of you.”

  “What if I don’t like what’s in front of me?” I shrug my hand from his warm, strong grip, despite the heat wave cresting in my belly.

  Johnny lowers his face toward me, his eyelids half-mast. “Then you adjust your position and swing again.”

  Whoa. It has to be a sin for a man to have such lush eyelashes. And what’s with the bedroom eyes? Isn’t my father standing right there?

  Hey, wait. Papa? Out of the side of my eye, I notice him walk away with Carlos.

  Johnny winks. “Why don’t we go back out there and try it again.”

  “Not unless you pitch like you mean it.”

  “Got it.” He picks up a bat from the dugout and hands it to me. “Remember, keep your eye on the ball.”

  I get into position. I’ll show him. I’m ready.

  Instead, His Arrogance swings his arm lazily and lobs a ball straight at me.

  I can get it. I’m going to reach it this time. I lunge and the ball strikes me on the forearm. Ow! I drop the bat, rubbing my arm.

  “Miss Sánchez.” Johnny trots toward me. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You beaned me.”

  “So I did. In that case I owe you a drink.”

  “When you bean someone, they get a walk. Why did you throw it at me?”

  “You reached for it.”

  “You aimed at me.”

  “If you insist. Watch my aim.” Johnny leans in and makes a beeline for my lips. The kiss is soft and fluffy, but his lips are firm and he nips my lower lip before tilting his head for a better fit.

  Oh, wow. Handsome god man is kissing me? Me? After striking me out? He hooks a hand around my waist and massages my entire mouth, teasing my lips with his tongue.