Chapter 8
LORENZO
Esmar’s voice rises and falls with the perfection of a trained tenor, and I shake my head in amazement.
The man hasn’t stopped for nearly an hour, his powerful voice belting out classic opera like he’s singing pop in the shower.
And he hasn’t missed a single note even as he preps for tonight’s dinner.
“Hey, Esmar, think we can change from cruel fate to something happier?” I ask.
“Ooh, challenge throwdown!” Gilberto cheers.
Esmar laughs. “You might be sorry, but you asked for it. You speak French?” I have no idea what he’s talking about, but the entire kitchen staff is looking from Esmar to me with knowing smiles.
“A bit,” I hedge. The multicultural kitchen here probably has speakers of at least fifteen languages, and though Italian is my first language, my travels through Europe have taught me the basics of a few more.
I might be in trouble. But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than in this kitchen right now.
After Meredith’s meeting this morning, I contemplated how best to spend my day.
I don’t have any meals to cook for the wedding guests today because the resort kitchens are handling that as pre-planned, and though the beach called to me, I don’t want to burn before we kayak this afternoon.
I might be olive complected, but the sun here is fierce and unforgiving.
So Esmar’s kitchen is where I headed, wanting to watch him, learn from him, taste his food, and learn his soul, as he put it.
Hours later, I’m having a blast and feeling right at home. Until Esmar starts singing a new song, one created from his own imagination . . .
Oh, pretty lady with skin so pale,
Let my work my fingers in your dough,
I won’t fail. I’ll knead you back and forth,
Up and down all night. And when you are perfectly
Al dente, my sauce will set you right!
Every verse gets more hilarious, bawdier, and more explicit. Finally, I have to give up, setting down my knife before I cut myself. It’s the signal for the end of the song, and everyone cheers Esmar as I hold my belly, laughing hard and trying not to pass out because I can’t breathe.
“Congratulations, you lasted longer than most!” someone calls over, laughing themselves. “But those lines at the end, about her garlic knot and bathing it in butter . . . priceless!”
“How in the world did you come up with that?” I ask Esmar.
He shrugs, his knife never stopping as he cuts thin slices of jicama. “I’ve traveled some as well. A French chef I worked with would create lyrics to entertain us, and it became a fun way to greet new staff here.”
“You mean to haze them?” I say with a smile, still chuckling inside.
“You say to-mah-to, I say to-may-to,” he replies easily.
And we continue to work together through the lunch service, enjoying each other’s company and showing off a bit. Though for chefs, showing off is how we teach, how we learn.
As service wraps up, Esmar dismisses me. “Mashi danke. Thank you, Chef, but I must kick you out of my kitchen now. You are in paradise. Go enjoy the island.”
I take advantage of the offer, quickly washing up and heading back to Abigail’s room. Our room.
I like the sound of that. Fuck, she was stunning this morning—her thick hair a tangled mess from tossing and turning all night, her eyes bleary with sleep, and her nightgown too thin to disguise her pearled nipples. And her blatant desire and enjoyment of my body.
I enjoyed seeing her that way, a peek behind the bluster she puts on and defenses she wears like sparkly distractions.
I find the room empty and a small worry takes root. Is she going to stand me up?
I get ready, not willing to fully consider it.
Once I’m in swimsuit trunks and a tank top, with a healthy layer of sunscreen, I sit on the couch and stare at the clock.
One thirty comes and goes, and the root turns to a small sprout of nerves mixed with a tiny leaf of anger.
If I have to scour the resort, I’ll find her.
If nothing else, I know where she’ll be sleeping tonight . . . right beside me.
At 1:45, the door flies open and she comes running in. “Sorry! Sorry! You would not believe my morning. I’m ready!”
But since she runs right past me and into the bedroom, I find that hard to believe.
Janey follows along at a more reasonable pace, shaking her head.
“It really has been a super shitty day, so go easy on her.” She tilts her head, considering.
“Actually, maybe go rough? She might be into that. Bam-bam-bam.” She fists one hand as though holding imaginary hair and open-palm smacks the empty air in front of her, painting quite the picture.
As enticing as that sounds, something else she said is of much more immediate concern. “What happened today? What’s wrong?”
Janey shakes her head. “That’s up to her to share.
Actually, I’m interested to see if she does, though I don’t know if it’s more meaningful that she forgets all about it when she’s with you or that she wants to tell you things.
Guess I’ll ponder that while I slave away on this to-do list so she doesn’t freak the fuck out.
” The last part is whispered so Abigail doesn’t hear.
“You’re a good friend, a good partner. You take good care of her,” I say genuinely.
Janey’s shrug is easy. “We take care of each other. On that note.” Her face instantly morphs to one of pure threat.
“If you so much as hurt one hair on her head or leave one tiny crack in her heart, I will destroy you. The only thing you’re allowed to do is pound her uterus into her ribs if she asks you to. ”
I blink. “Uh . . . is that an American euphemism I don’t know? It sounds painful.”
“Just don’t hurt her,” she summarizes as the door opens and Abigail sprints out again.
“Let’s go!”
She’s wearing purple running shorts and a bright pink tank top. A turquoise swimsuit peeks out under her arms, and her hair is now piled on top of her head. She’s a riot of color and energy that I want to sample, teasing apart her layers of complexity to discover how such a delicacy was born.
But that will have to wait because we are late for our kayak date.
In the lobby, Emily and Doug are waiting on one of the low, white cushioned wicker couches.
“There you are,” Emily clips out in exasperation as she stands. But with a blink, she switches to a friendly smile, confiding, “We were late too, so caught up in each other. Right, Doug?”
He rises too, putting a hand on Emily’s lower back. “Uh, yeah. Brunch was delicious. They made these pancakes with coconut flakes in them. So good.” He groans, patting his flat belly with his other hand.
Emily sighs, and I realize she was trying to rub Abigail’s nose in their newlywed sexy times the way we did. Tit for tat style. But unintentionally, Doug cluelessly didn’t back her move.
“Pancakes with coconut sound delectable. I’ll have to try them.
” I make a mental note to do so. I’m always interested to try food, especially food that others find enjoyable.
But where most folks simply chew and swallow, deciding whether it tastes good or not, I enjoy figuring out what makes something appetizing.
“Let’s get outside before our reservation is cancelled,” Emily huffs. We dutifully follow her out onto the sand.
“Hey! You guys my two o’clock kayakers?” a man asks. He looks very much like a surfer—blond, shaggy hair that he tosses back with a flick of his head, a deep tan, and a seashell tied on a leather cord around his neck.
“Yep,” Doug answers.
“Awesome, dude. I’m Dylan. I’ll be your guide today for this adventure. First things first. Anybody ever punched a shark in the nose before?”
He says it deadpan, as if that’s an actual life skill we might need in the next few hours.
“I have.” I raise my hand like this is elementary school. All eyes turn to me in shock and I let the moment stretch. “Kidding.”
“Bro!” Dylan drawls out, “You had me goin’ with that. I was ready to hear you tell the tale.” He holds up a fist and I pound it.
Everyone else chuckles.
“Right, so just to be clear, no shark punching except as a last resort.” He’s kidding, I think. “Have any of you kayaked?”
Emily raises her hand this time. “Doug and I did once on a romantic weekend getaway.” She makes what should be a no-big-deal answer sound like they’re taking trips for candlelit sex on the regular.
But I focus on Abigail’s head shake that she’s never been in a kayak.
That’s a tidbit of information I actually want to know.
“Let me go over the basics, then, and once everyone’s as comfy as a crab, we’ll get in the water. Pop a squat in the sand and we’ll get started,” Dylan instructs us.
We all move to sit, but Dylan throws himself into a backflip, spinning through the air and landing on the soft sand in a seated position. “Nailed it!” he exclaims with a fist pump. He sounds surprised, but surely, he’s not hurling himself through the air if he wasn’t certain he would land safely?
“Ladies, if you’ll sit between your guys’ legs. No need to be shy, we all know this is your honeymoon,” Dylan teases. “Get all up in there.”
I open my legs, and Abigail scoots back into the cradle of them, her back to my chest. I wrap my arms around her belly, pulling her in tighter. Her sweet gasp of shock is sexy, and the way she slightly shifts, rubbing her ass against my cock, is surprising and hot as hell.
“Mia rosa,” I growl into her ear.
Dylan smirks, and I wonder how accustomed he is to seeing newlyweds maul each other under the guise of a kayak lesson.
True to his word, he goes over the basics of kayaking with us. There’s a lot about timing and paddle position and even more about working together as a team. “As in marriage, as in the kayak,” he intones sagely.
And then, despite our utter lack of confidence, we’re in the water.
Dylan takes the lead since he knows the way to the private island, with Abigail and me in one kayak and Emily and Doug in another.