Cava with My Colleague (Aged Like Fine Wine #4)

Chapter 1

Jade

The last person I want to see when I’m walking out of a sex shop in Madrid’s vibrant Chueca neighborhood is my stuffy colleague.

Actually, I don’t see him, and that’s the problem.

I was too busy with my bags and the door of the tienda erotica and when I turn and slam face-first into a wall of black fabric, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s not a wall—it’s a man.

A tall man in black, walking a black dog on a black leash.

In my defense, the restaurant across the corner is black.

It’s like urban camouflage, and if it were nighttime I’d be screaming for help and pulling out my pepper spray.

But it’s mid-afternoon and there’s a break in the dreary winter drizzle, so the sidewalk is busy.

Instead of shouting I gasp and straighten.

And that man is not a stranger.

“Jade?” Carlos asks in that oddly flat tone I’ve come to expect from him.

Where my mouth and eyes create perfect Os, just like the surprised emoji, Carlos’s eyebrows are drawn down, a deep V of tidy, inky-black hair over deep brown eyes.

He’s taller than me—about a foot over my five-four—and over a decade older, so his hair is shot through with gray, giving him a silver fox appeal.

“Carlos, hola.”

The dog steps forward for its own greeting.

It’s a black Lab, with a white muzzle and a stocky frame.

Its tail is thick and solid, whacking aggressively against Carlos’s leg while it prances, gazing up at us.

Manuel—Manu to his Spanish friends, Manny to his American students—my Spanish tutor and today’s shopping friend, bends down to pet the dog and coo at it.

Carlos turns his head, surveying the store we’ve just come out of.

His gaze sweeps over the shop’s rainbow-lit windows.

I went in on a whim. That’s how I do most things—I was walking past, the window display caught my eye, and twenty minutes later I’m walking out with a paper bag and a slightly elevated heart rate. Manny has learned to keep up.

For half a second, something flickers across Carlos’s face—not quite judgment, not quite . . . longing? But then it was gone, replaced by that same careful blankness he’d worn the day I asked him to coffee.

When I’d suggested that we get to know each other outside of the office, he’d looked at me like I’d invited him to commit corporate espionage. “That wouldn’t be appropriate,” he’d said, and avoided me ever since.

Apparently buying sex accessories in Chueca on a Saturday was equally inappropriate in Carlos’s world, based on the look he’s giving me.

Then he looks down at the neon blue bags Manny and I both carry, obviously matching the storefront, and his face morphs into that look you get when you smell a potently bad fart and know exactly who was responsible.

Oh wait, someone did fart. I think it was the dog.

Regardless, the look on his face—like he’d just confirmed every unprofessional suspicion he’d ever had about me—makes something hot and uncomfortable twist in my chest.

I didn’t survive cancer and grad school to get embarrassed about a sex toy.

But one look from Mr. Perfect in his pressed black coat, and I feel like I’m back in middle school, caught doing something shameful.

Fuck that.

I lift my chin and give him my brightest smile.

“Carlos, this is my friend, Manny. Manny, this is Carlos. We work together.”

Manny has set his bag and umbrella on the ground to free up his hands for the dog.

He looks up at Carlos. “What is his name?” he asks in Spanish.

Then he does a double take, looking Carlos up and down before giving me a look.

Manny’s almost obnoxiously handsome, with dark hair, thick eyebrows, and killer cheekbones.

He’s my closest friend in Madrid and happily engaged to a lovely man I’ve met a few times.

“Izan.”

Manny takes Izan’s cheeks in his hands and rubs them, speaking soft Spanish words of praise to the cute boy. “Oh, eres una monada.”

I return my attention to Carlos. “Izan is yours?” I ask, carefully pronouncing it like Carlos did—E-zahn—and Carlos raises an eyebrow. “I just would not have pictured you to be a dog person. You give off cat energy.”

Carlos’s lips tighten. Is he offended? Like cat energy is a bad thing. One of my best friends, Emma, has a neighbor with a black cat who occasionally escapes over into her apartment.

I don’t have a lot of experience with either species.

When you travel a lot for work, pets are difficult.

Besides, after my year working in China, I had always hoped to live abroad again, and a cat or dog is a one- or two-decade-long tether.

Dogs even more so than cats. Regular feeding, energetic playtime, walking multiple times a day . . .

“Wait, you’re walking your dog. Do you live here?”

Izan is licking Manny’s face and he’s laughing while digging his nails into the dog’s haunches. It’s like the tropics down there while I’m up here in the arctic with Carlos’s frosty glare.

“Yes.”

“Wow,” I say, dropping my bags and bringing my hands up to my head, making the mind-blown gesture. “You have a dog and you live in the gayborhood.”

Carlos stiffens even further. “What’s wrong with living in Chueca?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I wish I lived here. It’s just .

. . very bright and colorful.” My gaze runs down Carlos’s outfit.

He’s dressed head-to-toe in black, which is pretty much par for the course, whereas Chueca is literally one of the gayest—in all senses of the word—place I’ve been to.

The subway signs have rainbows on them, for Christ’s sake.

Below us, Manny shrieks. My gaze drops to the dog, who’s discovered that the paper bags contain interesting things—stick-shaped things that probably smell a lot like a leather leash to a dog.

Izan dances away from Manny as he tries to grab the black leather riding crop from his mouth. I bought it on a whim in the store. Unfortunately, Manny’s cackling so hard he falls on his ass instead of doing anything effective about it.

Carlos jumps into motion, clicking his tongue at the dog and shortening his hold on the leash. The dog backs up, knowing it’s got something it’s not supposed to. Carlos’s voice is firm and crisp, telling the dog to drop it. “?Suelta!”

The dog looks at him. His little Labrador eyebrows, flecked with gray, look up at his dad with an expression that is pure “aw, do I have to?”

“Izan,” Carlos repeats, even more sternly. “Suéltalo.”

Slowly, the dog drops the riding crop on the ground.

Carlos reaches down and picks it up, handing it back to me.

His fingers brush mine, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne—something woody and clean.

His hands are larger than I’d expected, elegant for someone who spends his days behind a desk in marketing.

When his dark eyes meet mine, there is heat there for just a flash before he looks away.

Wait. Was Carlos . . . flustered?

A thrill runs through me that had nothing to do with the shopping bag full of toys.

Absolutely not, Jade. This man rejected you and then treated you like a pariah. No amount of chin dimple changes that.

“I am so sorry about that. I can pay for a new one.”

It’s a nice offer, but Carlos looks wildly uncomfortable at the thought of going into the store. I think. He looks wildly uncomfortable most of the time around me.

I lift the handle up to my eyes, taking my time inspecting the leather to see if there is any damage. There’s a few indents from the dog’s teeth but nothing too bad.

Carlos’s eyes are looking anywhere but at me, and I would feel bad for making him uncomfortable except it’s usually the other way around. Plus, I’m allowed to have a happy and healthy sex life, blah, blah blah. It’s not like I planned for this.

“It’s not your fault,” I say, tucking it back into my bag. I give Carlos my slowest, sweetest smile. “Besides, your dog is smart; that’s a very fun toy.”

Something flickers in Carlos’s eyes—heat, maybe shock, definitely awareness—before his expression shutters completely. He takes a deliberate step back, putting distance between us, but not before I catch the way his gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second.

“I need to go,” he says, his voice rougher than before.

“Hot date?” I ask sweetly. And fine, maybe with a little bit of jealousy. I’ve been in a dry spell myself.

“No.” The word comes out clipped. Then, as if he can’t help himself: “You should be more careful where you shop. Someone from work might see you.”

“Someone from work just did see me, Carlos.”

His jaw clenches. “Exactly.”

I bite down on another retort, which is something along the lines of if you have concerns about the merchandise, you’re welcome to inspect it more carefully.

He turns and walks away before I can respond, Izan’s leash tight in his fist. I watch him go, the tension in my chest fading.

Okay, fine. I press a hand to my sternum and take a breath. That was a lot. That was—objectively—a lot. I will not be thinking about it again. Starting immediately. This is me, not thinking about it.

“Jade,” Manny says.

“I know,” I say.

Manny links his arm through mine and steers me toward our destination—a bar for some tapas and drinks.

Halfway there, the rain starts coming down again, making the February day even more unpleasant.

By the time we get to our destination, I’m ready for a drink.

We shake our umbrellas out and take seats at the bar, bags tucked under our feet, and Manny signals to the staff before turning to me with a raised eyebrow.

“Okay, now you definitely need to tell me everything about that man.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I say, trying not to think about my colleague. Why did the thought of him seeing me—really seeing me—makes my pulse race?

“Venga, tía.” There’s an eyebrow waggle that clearly says you liar.

I roll my eyes. “He’s in our marketing department.” I pause. “His name is Carlos. I have been privately calling him Superman for three months.”

Manny’s eyebrows shoot up.

“He has a very notable chin dimple,” I say, defensive. “And that lush, dark hair. It’s purely descriptive.”

Manny sighs, giving me an exaggerated put-upon expression. “En espanol, guapa.”

This is the problem with being gossipy girlfriends with your language tutor. I say it again in Spanish, and am thankful that we’ve had plenty of gossip couched as Spanish lessons about my dating life and Manny’s relationship with his fiancé.

“Married?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never seen a ring.”

“Straight? He didn’t even look at me, so I think so.”

Manny’s confidence makes me laugh. No wonder we get along so well. “I have no idea.”

“He’s very handsome for his age. You think so, no? Why have you not asked him out yet?”

He is attractive. When I think silver fox, I think Patrick Dempsey or George Clooney, men who have gotten even more attractive with age.

I’ve never personally known a man at Carlos’s age—fifties, I think?

—who is that attractive. And there’s something about a man who’s already figured out who they are. The confidence.

“I did ask him out. He turned me down.” We work in different departments, so there wasn’t any issue with company policy. But from then on, Carlos looked at me like I had the plague.

First of all, not many men turn me down.

I’m fabulous . . . and with my petite frame, tan skin, and thick, dark hair, I fit enough of the beauty industry’s standards to enjoy pretty privilege.

The white streak in my hair means I’m memorable, too.

I stand out. And at forty years old, I’m confident and mature.

Basically, I’m awesome.

Secondly, we’re grown-ups and I have confidence out the wazoo. I would never make him feel uncomfortable for turning me down, because there’s always the next guy. But his avoidance made me feel like I’d done something wrong. I hadn’t!

And he only seemed to get colder and colder until I wish I’d never thought the man attractive in my life.

“He said no?” Manny leans in, incredulous. See? Even he gets it. “Ese cincuentón has no taste. I mean, look at you.” He waves his hand up and down my body.

I smooth my blazer—emerald green, fitted, that brings out my eyes. My shoes are white and pristine, my wide-leg jeans sit just right.

It’s Saturday, Madrid is beautiful, and I refuse to spend my days off looking like I just rolled out of a lab.

I laugh. “Okay, okay,” I say, but I use the Spanish vale instead, flicking my hand like so many of the locals do.

Our drinks arrive, and after our first sips, Manny looks up at me from under his lashes. “I just think if it’s not him, you need to find someone else.”

I groan. This is a conversation we’ve had enough times over the past few months that I’m tired of it.

When I first moved here, my best friend Emma stayed with me for a month.

I love her to death, but her lifestyle is so different from mine.

As a mom of three who had barely traveled, Emma wanted to take in the museums and food, not pick up men.

We spent our nights over good food and wine, deepening a friendship even further than I thought possible.

But she was also a bit of a crutch. Instead of being out making friends as a solo traveler, I got lazy and comfortable. And maybe a little depressed when she left.

I also hadn’t started my Spanish lessons, and meeting Manny solved both my problems. We hit it off, despite our ten-ish-year age difference, and he introduced me to the Madrid nightlife.

The problem is that this Madrid nightlife is mostly with gay men. There have been . . . some drawbacks.

I shake my head at him. “Carlos is hot, sure. He’s older than the men I usually go for, and I like older men. But now that I know him, he’s a stick-in-the-mud. It would never work.”

I have to explain what a stick-in-the-mud is to Manny—sometimes language lessons go the other way!—but he agrees with me. “I don’t know, Jade. Sometimes the stick just needs a—” He makes a gesture that could be pulling a stick out of the mud or it could be wanking.

“Well,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. “I won’t be the one to un-stick him.”