The en suite bathroom, though decorated tranquilly, is also a ghost town.
"Jelly... Jelly? Are you mad at me?"
I plop down onto the edge of my bed, trying not to frown. Eduardo is really gone?
"What?" I shake my head, faux indifference. "Why would I be mad?"
"Like I just said, if you were indeed listening. There was only one slot left, since I won't be able to take the classes... Technically I'll be there for the last two mornings; maybe they'll let me sit in the back and watch. Chef de León is too damn fine and the week's course was a steal."
"Melody what are you talking about?"
"The taste of Spain courses at the Inn, girl, are you listening?"
I rub my forehead. "I am listening. I just don't know what the hell you're talking about!" I snap. Perhaps that came out a tad forceful. Carlton has let me down on countless occasions. How does this feel worse? Why do I care? Stop and listen, I force myself.
"The classes with Chef Franco de León are today. It's a four-day course, Wednesday through Saturday. I don't think it was a sham. A couple hundred bucks, hell I'd give my right big toe to be there with you today. I'm sure there has to be another person needing a partner, since there was one ticket left. Surely the organizer wouldn't have an odd number of seats when there has to be a partnership while cooking and baking and slaving over a hot stove with that piece of caramel sexiness. Mm!"
Something ain't right with Melody. Yet, we've already made a pact that while in Spain, this is about me. Which is laughable, since this isn't really a bachelorette party. Damn it, Melody always gets what she wants, with her sneaky, vague self. I sigh.
Maybe Melody is bailing me out, subconsciously? She was always my biggest naysayer when it came to Carlton. Yesterday morning while I was waiting to get on the airplane, I got tons of emails from Melody. She's already got the perfect venue in place for my wedding, co-starring me. I don't want to dwell on a man I'll never meet again with no last name.
But … we connected.
"Melody, I don't know about this."
"Jelly, don't try to talk me out of it. You're taking those courses."
I laugh it off, though I was actually going to tell her about Eduardo. "You already make me slave over a hot ass kitchen, whenever you come over. Your little black ass needs to learn how to cook, it's blasphemy!"
Geesh, tell me how you really feel." She busts up laughing. "Look, just take these courses, take some notes, because your Spanish food could use a tad bit of help – don't hate, I'm just saying."
"You always just saying," I snap, shaking my head. Now the smile on my face is real, it won't leave for shit.
"Get dressed, Jelly, you're already five minutes late."
"Blah," I say, "stop telling me about the time. I'll be there on CPT."
"Not today, beautiful. On my dime, you're going to be there on white folk time."
"Oooo, you so bad. Don't let Kiel's mom hear you say that; it's so stereotypical."
"I love you girl, bye!" She hangs up.
CHAPTER 12
Franco
CRISP, SALTY AIR filters through my lungs. I pull the hoodie from over my head, and the polo shirt I've been wearing underneath clings to it, leaving me with a bare chest. With a huff, I lean back for a second, boots sinking into the white sand. The warmth of the morning sun floods my face, bare arms, and chest. I hadn't taken my hoodie off all night long, Angelique didn't question me about it either, after the joke about my ears.
Trudging through the sand, I almost feel myself smiling. Last night, after the drinking and talking, I hadn't slept a wink. She nodded off after a story about a stick up at the very first diner I worked in, in the Bronx. First Angelique was giggling and smiling, and telling me that I hadn't saved the day. But the story was true, and I promised to show her the newspaper clipping one day. Damn, I made a promise to a woman I do not intend to ever see again.
After said promise, I held her close like a good luck charm. Body soft to the touch. I could just about taste how sweet she was. But as sure as I'm not in that head place right now, I knew she wasn't.
What the fuck does that mean? Head space?
The seawater rushes forward. I meander sideways, boots already caked with wet sand. The cool breeze mimicking Lido's attempts at persuasion. How could that broad even come to a conclusion that I'd consent to being her side piece. She must think I'm a big ass pussy! I unhinge the short gate that leads me to the backyard of the Inn. I'd thought being here, being home would rid my mind of Lido Ali.
Then my mind reflects back to waking up beside Angelique this morning, as I creep toward the front door. In Angelique's presence, only one sole thought roamed through my mind. All I wanted to do was tell her exactly how I felt about that cabrón. Shit, to be honest, I did that. But the next move should have been gripping those luscious thighs, and that ass. Dragging her sexy, shapely body onto my lap, makes my cock stand at attention. I blink and Angelique's breasts, along with her down to earth demeanor, faded away.
"Buenos días, Don Franco," nods Gustavo, one of the grounds workers, as he places the plants in the windowsill.
I briefly make small talk about how I've magically appeared out of nowhere. Last night when I arrived, I snuck in. Since the Inn isn't exactly pushing as much traffic as a Las Vegas hotel, I couldn't mingle into the masses. But one of the singers was playing on the patio outside, which brings out Cabo de Blanco's version of a crowd. I'd slipped into the main lobby, dropped my duffel beneath the desk and picked up the strongest bottle of alcohol in the main dining room. After making up how I just got here, I ask, "¿Dónde está mi tía?"
"Right here," My Aunt Célia says from right behind me.
Gustavo laughs so hard that I can count the few teeth in his mouth, he slaps his hands on the soiled thighs of his jeans.
The spitting image of my mother greets me as I turn around. Silvery hair coiled into a bun, yet a few tresses have escaped to fly against her fair skin. That beautiful face, etched with wisdom, is tilted just slightly. Yet that is the extent to my aunt appearing like an innocent abuelita. Hazel eyes hooded, lips pursed, and hands on her hips, Célia doesn't even have to cuss me out in Spanish. Nevertheless, she does. Finger wagging, mi tia says even more colorful words than I know, while telling me it's disrespectful to sleep around the family business.
"Ay, ay," hisses my Uncle Juan from just inside the door. He steps outside, back slightly hunched as he wraps an arm around his wife, and attempts to guide her into the Inn. "This is your nephew, Célia."
"Ohhhhh, hush, Juan," she swats at him. Though with age, Célia has no qualms arguing out in the open, we step inside. Canvas photos of the Rodriguez twin sisters are on the wall, along with the many pictures of my uncle's family who've owned this business since the beginning of time.
We head for the kitchen, a common place. Juan holds one of the swinging doors for us. Célia cusses along the way about me being more discrete than sleeping around, and how it better not be with one of the guests.
"Célia!" Juan snaps.
I shrug, used to double the trouble. I should have dragged my mother, Carmen, up here.
"You will always be my baby, Franco," my aunt's lips puff out as she reaches up for me. It's like déjà vu except now I'm taller and she's so much shorter. The wet kisses are planted on either side of my cheek. "Oh, mi amor, are you hung over?"
"Célia," My uncle says, he annunciates every word for her benefit, "Franco, is a man, not a boy. Look, we can cancel – "
"You don't have to cancel anything. I'll take a quick shower and take something," I try, hands up. My uncle says I'm a man, but when I'm here, it's the furthest thing from the truth. As I hold my hands up, my aunt gasps.
"Tomo algo – take something," she grunts then holds up her index finger.
Fuck me … . I lean back against the counter, as the short woman begins to flit around. While sifting through the seasoning carousel, filled with many herbs, Célia tosses an order over her shoulder for Juan to go pick a light purple flower.
"Tia," I begin just as my aunt mashes down the blender button. The noise compounds the pounding in my head. Then it's done. I glance up, my aunt is thrusting a glass with a frothy, vomit-hued drink into my right hand. There are fragments of the flower petals my uncle just arrived with.
"Nonsense, Franco. Drink up." Her eyes flit to the glass then back at my gaze.
The herbal scent wafts through my nostrils. Why did I return here? This is my home away from home. I was too much of a bitch to really return to Madrid, instead retreating to North Spain as my parents did for a retreat from my father's ridged way of life.