Adrian x Belvina book.
Adrian Parker has always been the rock-steady, reliable, the friend who would drop everything to help others, even when his own world was crumbling. Beneath the smiles and jokes, however, lies a man haunted by the weight of pa...
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Listen to The Man Who Can't be moved by The Script.
I leaned back on the couch, scanning the living room with its eclectic mix of old-school charm and modern touches. The house had personality—bright, lively, and full of history. Everywhere I looked, there was something interesting: colorful throw pillows in every corner, fresh plants standing proud in their vases, and an old wooden bookshelf crammed with what looked like family heirlooms. The smell of food was already teasing me from the kitchen, but my eyes kept drifting to the makeshift altar across the room. Belvina had mentioned her family was very religious, but seeing the candles flickering and the small statues arranged neatly on the table felt like a piece of them I hadn't fully understood until now.
I stood up, drawn to the framed jersey on the wall. A bright yellow and purple basketball jersey, clearly treasured. The glass around it reflected the soft light of the room, like it was a rare artifact.
"I will never forget how I fought my way through the crowd just to get LeBron James' signature on that jersey," came a deep voice behind me, followed by a chuckle.
I turned to see the man I assumed was Belvina's father. Tall, built like a linebacker, with tattoos peeking from the collar of his button-up shirt. I'd been expecting someone more... refined. Instead, he had this wild, rugged energy, like he belonged on the cover of a grizzled rock band album.
"Adrian Parker, right?" he asked, his accent thick and rich. There was something about him that made me wonder how much I'd regret breaking his daughter's heart.
"Yeah. Hi, Mr. Gallardo, Happy Thanksgiving," I said, offering my hand. My pulse quickened a little as we shook hands. His grip was firm, unshakable.
"Call me Miguel," he said, his smile warm but mischievous. "Are you a fan?" He gestured to the jersey, clearly proud of the whole saga.
"Yeah, I never miss a game," I said, relieved to find some common ground. A guy who loves basketball? I can handle that.
"Who's your favorite player?" Miguel asked, settling down across from me on the sofa.
"Kyle Kuzma," I said, feeling a little cocky.
Miguel scoffed. "He's good but sloppy sometimes." I almost defended Kuzma right then and there but held back. I didn't want to start a debate in front of the family—especially not on my first Thanksgiving here.
"You're lucky," Miguel continued, leaning forward a bit. "Be careful with Fabiola. She doesn't know how to control her emotions sometimes. She's known you her whole life, and this is like a dream come true for her, even if she doesn't show it. Took that from her mother," he said with a hearty laugh.
Fabiola. So that was her real name. I'd never known it. Then again, I never expected her parents to be so... traditional.
"I guess she was waiting for you all those years," Miguel said, his voice turning a bit softer, almost nostalgic. "You should feel lucky."
