Page 20 of No Sweeter Poison

“In Spain?” his nose crinkles a bit as he tilts his head back and forth. “Nine but usually ten.”

“Ten o’clock?”

He laughs and moves his hand to the small of my back. “Come on. You can watch the magic happen.”

I follow him through the house and my eyes latch on to every detail I can find. Spanish style mixed with French influence: a curved iron door gives way to an antechamber which grants access to other corners of the house. Arabic style archways lead to what looks like a living room, center hall, and drawing room. Despite the wainscoted walls and green and white early twentieth century wallpaper, a modern glass and steel staircase twirls down the center of the room. Above our heads is a black chandelier and beneath my feet are hardwood floors, dark and polished, likely from the early twenties.

Overflowing with old world charm, the entrance to the kitchen is the complete opposite. It’s modern, not overwhelmingly so, but completely at odds with the rest of the house. A large white and gray marble island takes up the center of the room and four black stools sit in a row under the bar top. The cabinets are smooth and white, counters marble, sink wide and made of porcelain. The only hint of color is the blue and white backsplash, arranged in small tiles with a Mediterranean flair.

The far-left wall is all glass, the stone floor bleeding over the threshold to the back patio. I’ve never seen such a big pool before…

As if remembering, he says, “Where’s Karina?”

My head snaps around. “Oh! Um…she’s lactose intolerant? And ate a tub of ice cream behind my back. So she’s sick.”

He chuckles and turns to face the stove. “She’s quiet the character, isn’t she?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “You have no idea.”

“Make yourself comfortable.” He lowers the flame on the stove and snatches up his discarded apron, tying it around his waist. His gaze drops to the items clutched against my chest. “Do you want to put that somewhere?”

“Oh! Uh, no, actually.” I extend the flowers and pastries, feeling a little silly for having brought something in the first place. Wealth like this makes a simple gift like mine feel entirely useless but no properly raised Latina ever shows up to someone else’s house emptyhanded. Especially on the first visit. “This is for you.”

Alejandro looks down, a bit confused at first, before he takes the outstretched offering and smiles. Appearing genuinely flattered, he says, “Perfect. I was in desperate need of flowers before you showed up.”

I smile in return, my stomach in knots.

I watch him make his way across the room to a butler’s pantry near the window. He returns with a vase and cookie platter. Eager to be useful, I walk around the kitchen island. “Let me help—”

“It’s all right.” On the way back, he extends his foot and pulls out a stool. “Take a seat. I’ll make you a drink.”

Eyes dropping to the stool, I hesitate before doing so. Scattered across the kitchen island are cut up vegetables, bowls, jars of spices, banana leaves, and different utensils. Meat soaks in a richly colored marinade and a measuring cup sticks out from a jar of uncooked rice. Fresh herbs wrapped in twine sit in a small wicker basket close to the edge and I pick up a handful of cilantro. It smells fresh and the color is vibrant green, as if it was just cut today.

Alejandro puts the flowers in a vase he sets by the window and takes a bite out of a sugar cookie before putting the rest on a platter he leaves on the counter. A second later, a wine glass appears in front of me and he pours pale yellow liquid inside.

“Don’t I feel special,” I tease. “I’ll have to leave a five-star review on Yelp before I leave.”

He casts a playful look in my direction before returning to the stove.

I know it’s silly to feel nervous around him…two weeks isn’t a long time to know someone but it should be enough to break the ice. Yet, when he passes by me to grab a spice jar, hand grazing the small of my back as he leans over the island, my entire body flushes with heat. We steal glances—him by the stove, me looking up over the rim of my wine glass—and each time he meets my gaze it gets harder to breathe.

This is a summer fling—I know that. When my time in Spain is over, we’ll keep in contact for a little while. Maybe even make plans to “visit” each other and, for one reason or another, those plans will always fall through. Eventually, the years will pass and then we’ll become memories to each other. I’m okay with that because I have the right now.

A woman’s first summer romance should be a rite of passage. I’m enjoying every second of mine.

It helps that he’s a marvel to look at; especially in that apron. What is so sexy about a man in apron? Absolutely nothing. And yet…

“I didn’t know you cooked,” I say.

He gives a light shrug and if I knew him better, I might mistake his dismissal as modesty. “It’s something I enjoy.”

“Did someone teach you?”

“My mother.” He measures a few cups of rice and goes to rinse it out in the sink. “She was the master chef of the family. I’m the eldest so I spent the most time with her, helping with Diego and Lettie.”

Was, past tense. My heart aches for him.

“By the time my father died, my grandfather was well past his childrearing years. I became a housewife at eighteen.” He says this with a smile but I sense the sadness he tries to hide behind humor. “Couldn’t let Diego and Lettie live off crackers and coffee.”