Page 21 of No Sweeter Poison
Doubtful, considering they’re wealthy and could’ve hired someone to take care of Diego and Lettie. Then again, maybe they weren’t always rich. Still, both parents gone by eighteen…how awful. My father was mostly a terrible person but at least I had someone after Mom died. Alejandro’s a few years older than I am, though I’m not sure how many. And when I met Lettie, she seemed younger than me so I can only imagine what the age gap between them must’ve been. Seven years? Wouldn’t be surprised if it was more.
“Do you enjoy it at least?” I gesture toward the food around us. “Cooking?”
“It’s one of few things that brings me peace, yes.”
“What are the others?”
He wipes his hands on a towel and comes around to my side of the kitchen island, leaning against it with his elbows perched behind him. I flip over a clean wine glass and pour him some then extend it to him. We clank them together.
“Salud,” he says.
“Salud.”
He watches as I lift the glass to my lips and sips then finally does the same.
“Seashells.”
I frown.
“Collecting them,” he explains. “We spent a lot of time at the beach as children. Our father used to collect seashells with us.”
I remember seeing some in his bedroom. They were scattered amongst his trinkets, placed near picture frames with care, looking more like decoration than something of value.
“What else?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions.”
“It’s a ploy. All part of my master plan.”
“And what’s that?”
His gaze drops to my mouth before lifting to my eyes again. It doesn’t escape my notice.
“Seduction. The small talk is to get you into bed.”
Tension crackles between us. Alejandro never breaks eye contact. “I should probably tell you you’re intelligent then. Women love that.”
I turn away, too shy to maintain eye contact and nowhere near brave enough to make the first move.
“That needs to simmer for a while.”
I lift my head and he’s untying his apron.
“I’ll give you a tour.” He gestures toward the hall. “I’m sure you’ll find plenty to geek out over.”
NO SWEETER POISON
Dahlia
L ibraries can tell you a lot about a person.
Technically, this is Alejandro’s grandfather’s house but as I skim the spines of the books stuffed into the shelves, the selection is simply too diverse to ignore. Politics, history, science, philosophy, fiction. Everything from romance to poetry to literary. One clothbound edition catches my eye so I pull it out and flip through it. On the front page written in faded ink, it reads:
No hay veneno más dulce,
que el del amor verdadero
“There is no sweeter poison than that of true love,” Alejandro says over my shoulder. I spin around and he taps the cover. “My grandmother was a poet.”
