12 - ANYSSA/CAMILA
12
ANYSSA/CAMILA
I t’s an old warehouse with brick walls, oak floors, heavy pine beams, and exposed ductwork overhead. Windows positioned three feet under the ceiling give the illusion that it goes on forever, but I would guess the room’s height is around twenty-five feet.
Rows of circular stands and T-Stands display T-shirts with the Belle Baie Rum Distillery logo on the front. Wooden shelves hold trinkets, from personalized shot glasses to name bracelets, copper mugs, and hats. There are even delicacies like chocolate-dipped, rum-coated lollipops, fresh-baked rum cake, and rum cookies.
It’s not what I expected at all. I’m taking notes to share with Camila when I return. I wish I could take pictures, but that’s out of the question.
A set of stairs to the left and right lead to a bar and grille area upstairs. The staff is welcoming and friendly, which may be due to the owner’s presence. After all, if Nazár Rivas were my boss, I wouldn’t want to disappoint him either. And not just for the sake of my job.
The man is beautiful, simply put. With his dark, brooding looks, long, dark hair, and deep moss-green eyes, Nazár is breathtaking. Pair that with his broad shoulders, defined biceps and ass, and that thick Colombian accent, and he’s the stuff that dreams are made of.
Nazár leads us past the rows of merchandise and beyond a bar at the back to a large, open lobby area. Where the store had a more rustic appeal, the lobby area is slightly more polished and gleaming with a sunny yellow coat of paint, a glass chandelier hanging from overhead, and sleek polished oak floors.
“What’s the TV for?” an Indian man asks.
“For those who choose to get the quick history recap of our facilities and how we started making our rum, as well as the history of the rum-making process on the island,” Nazár explains.
I glance at the row of three pews in front of a large-screen TV mounted on a wall. Along the walls are framed posters of old pictures and articles about the factory.
Nazár explains how Americans purchased slaves from Africa and then traded them to the West Indies for molasses. After the rum was made in New England, they would trade the rum for more slaves in Africa.
After donning aprons, face masks, and gloves, we step into another large room with five stills and other equipment and I have to ask for the correct spelling for my notes. I try not to focus on the man standing so close to me that I might get singed at a simple brush of his skin against mine.
“This control box allows our operators to control the heat supplied to these machines,” Nazár explains.
“How hot does it have to get?” I ask.
“One-hundred-ninety degrees,” he says, turning that heated gaze on me.
He steps away as though becoming aware of how close we are to each other.
“As it travels up the tower into each plate, the alcohol content increases and the boiling point decreases.”
“How long does this process take?” I ask.
“Eighteen hours.”
He continues with his spiel, and the others look as if they’re partially interested but more focused on when they can return upstairs for the tasting. I’m the only one asking questions, and although I don’t want to act like a teacher’s pet, I have to get these notes for Camila.
Besides, Nazár looks impressed that I’m interested in this process enough to ask the questions.
“The boiling point increases as we remove the alcohol from this equipment,” he says, pointing at a giant vat that looks like a commercial-sized hot water tank. “When the machine reaches the boiling point of 212 degrees Fahrenheit, we’re done.”
Nazár’s explanations are more detailed throughout the tour, eliminating my need for further questions. I’m satisfied with what I’ve gathered, and I plan to return to my room this evening to transcribe my notes into a detailed document that I can send to Camila.
For the most part, my obligation to her is complete, and I can now relax and explore this resort and island the way I want to.
We return to the front of the store, but I make my way to the lobby with the history articles to read each of them. I’ve finished reading the framed articles about rum making and its impact on slavery, and I’ve moved on to the articles about the history of this location when he returns.
“Did you get everything that you needed?”
I spin around and see Nazár leaning against a wall with his hands shoved into his front pockets. His gaze travels from my eyes down to my legs and then slowly back up again before it lingers on my mouth.
The heat from his predatory gaze consumes me, and I desperately want to have just one night with him.
Shaking my head, I recall the purpose of my visit. “I did. Thank you for being so forthcoming with all the information.”
“You’re welcome. I hope it’s useful in the changes you want to make to your vineyard.”
“I think it will be. I’m looking for new ideas to continue growing the operations, and I want us to have viable options for other income. Investing in other business ventures aside from the vineyard alone is smart and will set my future family up for generational wealth.”
“Your future family?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm,” he murmurs but doesn’t elaborate.
“So, I read the history of this place, but why was that your attraction?”
I have to switch subjects to uphold my promise to Camila. I can’t delve into a personal conversation with this man because I’ll feel too close to him, and that’s the last thing I need. His proximity to me is turning me on. I need some sort of distraction.
“My family owns a vineyard and have for centuries. My grandfather had a whiskey distillery when I was a boy, and the process was more interesting to me than the vineyard my brothers and I worked.”
“How many brothers?”
“Two. One older and the other younger.”
“Did you enjoy working in the vineyards?”
“Initially, until I got older and started having my own dreams. My grandfather’s distillery interested me the most, though. It allowed me to spend time with my grandfather one-on-one. He would take me to work with him early in the morning, and we’d have breakfast and coffee together at his desk before we’d do the rounds, talk to the workers, and then return to his office for him to do paperwork.
“My assignment was to read up on the distilling process. By lunchtime, we’d go to the local pub that his best friend owned, and we’d head to the back table and have lunch together. He would take me home after lunch, and I wouldn’t have to do anything the rest of the day.”
“This happened on the weekends?”
“Summer. Every summer since I was nine until I went off to college.”
“That’s sweet. Do you still visit with him?”
“He passed away my freshman year of college.”
“I’m sorry, Nazár.”
He shakes his head and then asks, “What about you? Is this something you want to carry on because you inherited it from your parents, or are you passionate about it?”
“A little of both. I want to honor my parents, but I love fine wines and the process of creating them. It is my lure to the vineyard as it relates to a possible resort that feeds my passion for traveling and providing others with wonderful experiences like the ones I seek. Right now, I’m not married to the idea of creating a distillery or resort, but I’m looking around and keeping my options open. I want to do this, but I must complete my research, run the numbers, and weigh the pros and cons before committing myself completely to the idea.”
“Well, if there’s anything that I can do to help you make up your mind, just let me know.”
“Thanks. Do you do these tours on your own that often?”
“Sometimes. All the staff is well versed in giving tours, but I like to stay close to the operations. It allows my guests to see my face and involvement occasionally.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
He smirks, looks at the floor, and then back at me.
“Maybe once every six months.”
“Ahh, I just happened to have fallen in that six-month window.”
“No. It’s only been two months since I last did this,” he says, standing and winking at me.
Without another word, Nazár places his hands in his pockets and heads back to the store with the other guests, who are either shopping or drinking.
ANNY’S ANNALS
Aloha!
Hey, it’s me again . . .
Sooo, today was pretty interesting. I spent all day yesterday looking for Mr. Rivas and couldn’t find him. He shows up today at the rum distillery tour looking hot and gorgeous.
Yet, he remained professional the entire time. The only time that I felt he noticed me was when we were in the distillery and he explained the process.
The man was so close to me that I could have bent over, pulled down my shorts, and he could have slipped inside. When he realized how close he was, he instantly moved away.
Gah!!!
He remained in professional mode and kept his distance until the tour ended. We talked while everyone else was drinking or shopping, and I learned a little about him. Not much, but just enough to feel like I know him better.
I’m uncertain what my attraction to him is. I mean beyond the tight ass, the broad shoulders and chest, the gorgeous face, alluring eyes, and the sex appeal. Hell, I’m not sure what it is because, if anything, he gives off vibes that scream, “Run!” I can tell he’s hung, and he’ll fuck up my whole uterus—or maybe even my life!!!
Because you don’t get “love” with a man like Nazár Rivas. He doesn’t utter sweet whispers and make promises he can’t keep. Hell, the man doesn’t look as if he’s capable of loving anyone other than himself.
Nazár is the type that will have you eating out of the palm of his hands. You’ll be down on your knees begging to please him, and he’ll snatch your soul out of your body while you love every minute of it.
Yeah, he’s a heartbreaker, that one. The knowledge of his existence alone is intoxicating, suffocating me until I have to see him again just to breathe. And then when I’m around him, I’m drowning in sensual awareness and sexual desire like I’ve never known for any man. And drinking? I have to stop the damn drinking around him because he has me wanting to rip my panties off, spread my legs, and tell him to take me. Just have your damn way with me already!
Will I be ashamed in the morning?
Probably. But dammit, it will be worth it.
Maybe next time, I’ll offer myself to him on a platter.
Maybe not.
Or . . . Yeah, just maybe.
I’m hopping off to write up a paper for Camila. Then I’ll head to dinner to see what I can get into.
Until next time, Anny!
Nys