Page 19 of No Sweeter Poison

Nervous giggles leave her and when she reaches for her wallet once more, I let her have it. If she really doesn’t want to, I can’t force her but I sure as hell was going to try. I should be at home planning the future of this fucking city and instead I’m outside a hotel in the Gothic Quarter practically begging a girl to go on a date with me. Do I look as pathetic as I feel?

Probably. Can’t bring myself to care though.

“Goodbye, Alejandro.”

I shove my hands in my pockets, determined to take the rejection in stride. “Goodbye, Dahlia.”

With one last smile she turns on the balls of her feet and heads back to the hotel. She grabs the door handle, swings it open, and just before the door shuts behind her, she calls out, “Give me fifteen—I need to change my shoes!”

INTELLIGENT WOMEN

Two Weeks Later

Dahlia

V allvidrera is about an hour outside of the city and I suppose Barcelona’s equivalent to the suburbs. Not too sure though. The car I drove up in had such heavily tinted windows it made it difficult to see outside.

We stop halfway up the hill outside a tall stone wall wrapped around the perimeter of the block uninterrupted, save a set of wrought iron gates we drive though. The house on the other side is off white with a shingled roof, three stories tall, and has French style windows with deep blue shudders. As the driver ushers me out of the car and I approach the front door, I take a moment to catch my breath.

It’s beautiful.

Karina was supposed to come but she was sick all morning. Come the afternoon, she was looking a little better, but after a nasty argument with Brent, she locked herself in the bathroom and told me to go ahead without her. A half hour later she reemerged, pale faced and sweating like crazy. It wasn’t until I found the near empty tub of ice cream shoved to the back of the mini fridge did I figure it out.

The little minx snuck in dairy behind my back.

Most people who have a lactose problem can suffer through a bit of milk without dying. Not Karina. She has zero self-control and the food palette of a sixth grader. Last night we stopped by a grocery store to get some snacks and she must’ve bought the ice cream behind my back.

Which means I’m here in Vallvidrera without her and don’t know how to feel about it. On the one hand, I’ve been itching to see Alejandro again. It’s been two days since we went out to dinner and later met up with his siblings for a boat ride along the coast, a trip I dragged Karina along on. She’s been more than happy to encourage my little summer fling which is the only reason I don’t feel as guilty as I probably should.

I only came because I don’t have Alejandro’s phone number and couldn’t call to cancel.

Odd, but we never got around to making the exchange. When we see each other, we make plans for the next encounter before parting ways, and he’s unflinchingly reliable. I’m so accustomed to flaky, wishy-washy people, that someone who actually shows up when they say they will is a shock to the system. All I had on me was a business card with a single name and phone number on it. Alejandro’s instructions were simple—call when I was ready to be picked up.

I did and an hour later I’m here, at Alejandro’s front door, not knowing what to do.

Apparently, some of Diego’s friends from Mexico are visiting and they’re throwing a dinner party at their grandfather’s house while he’s in Italy on business. The invitation was extended to Karina and me on the strength of “the more the merrier” but I’ve encountered Alejandro’s siblings all of two times. Diego’s nice and Lettie’s a little prickly.

I lift my hand to the door and ring the bell, my stomach doing summersaults. I shouldn’t be this nervous. This will be, what, our fourth time hanging out together? Maybe fifth? Two weeks in and the butterflies should have abated by now.

Seconds tick away and no one answers. I’m half-tempted to turn around and leave but the driver is already pulling out of the driveway, leaving me at the mercy of this massive house and whoever’s inside. I almost ring the bell a second time but don’t get the chance.

The door swings open and Alejandro sticks his head out, spatula in one hand, kitchen towel in the other. There’s no concealing the shock that ripples across his face.

“Dahlia.”

I clutch the box of pastries and bouquet of flowers closer to my chest. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I attempt to smile. “Um, hi.”

He frowns a bit, a question taking form on his lips, but it dies just as quickly. Then he laughs and the sudden shift in emotion gives me whiplash.

Stepping aside, he opens the door and gestures inside. “You’re early.”

Early? I thought I was late. It’s already half past seven.

I check the time on my phone to make sure. “Actually, I’m late. I’m so sorry, there was all this traffic—”

“Don’t be.” He leans down and when he kisses my cheek the touch lingers, his lips brushing the corner of my mouth as he pulls away. “When I said be here around dinnertime, I should’ve said European dinnertime. Not American.”

It takes me a second to find my words. I still feel his kiss against my cheek. “What time do Europeans eat?”