Chapter 16
Salay
I love a man who can cook.
I mean actually cook.
That’s like recreational diving sexy.
Microwaving a premade meal?
He might as well be wearing floaties in the bathtub.
Making Camarones a la Diabla from scratch?
That’s basically the equivalence of having him flashing his certified diver credentials at me.
Shirtless.
Add in the fact he’s making one of my favorite Mexican seafood dishes I haven’t had since I high finned it away from home years ago and he takes all that shit one step further past shirtless to being shirtless next to his own yacht.
And the whole “I’d give up my tail and mer kingdom for you” cherry on top?
When said man, is specifically cooking it for you.
Not because he was in the mood, but hey, here’s some for you too.
Not because he was hungry, but didn’t wanna eat alone.
But because he thought of you.
Because he remembered something intimate about you.
Something you’ve never mentioned to anyone else.
Part of you you’ve never let anyone else know.
Won’t stick around to let anyone else know.
Victor Garcia reminds me of deep-water diving.
High risk for a potentially high reward.
And just like when you go deep-water diving…you are not always guaranteed to get said reward.
Or even a glimpse at it.
You have to be willing to gamble.
And that’s totally fine when it comes to life.
Not so much when it comes to your heart.
Instead of staying focused on the older man on the other side of the island – who may just be more delish than the meal simmering on the stove behind him – I drop my elbow onto the counter and flop my face into my open palm, stare longingly fixated out the patio glass door windows.
“You haven’t been out by the water today, have you?” Garcia casually inquires around his careful slicing.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Pulling my attention away from the beautifully lit pool area doesn’t occur. “I know you’re coelacanth fish ancient-”
“Sweet.”
“-which means your memory is clearly not what is once was-”
“Kind.”
“-but I know you remember the water falling from the sky earlier.”
“I believe you kids call it lluvia.”
“No,” I teasingly retort at the same time I redirect my focus to him, “that’s the dangling thing in the back of your throat.”
Against his own volition, Garcia lightly chortles and shakes his head. “Eres demasiado.”
“I am too much and yet not enough all in the same breath.”
“Sí.” He momentarily pauses his lime cutting. “Now, why didn’t you head out when it stopped pouring?”
“Zero needed a luxury ships worth of help understanding some of the items on the ship’s manifest as well as decoding some of the clues from the riddle it was very apparent, he fucked up.”
“So, you stayed with him?”
“Yeah.”
The corner of his lip cockily kicks upward. “You put his needs before your own?”
“For like a minute.”
His stare floods with sarcasm.
“Okay, like an hour.”
It deepens.
“Fuck. Fine. Whatever. Yes, I put Wild Kratts in the lifeboat instead of myself.”
A full fledge beam breaks out onto his face.
“Oh, like you’ve never done it.”
“I do it all the time,” Garcia openly admits to my surprise. “He just doesn’t realize it.”
“He’s very brilliant, very adorable, but very oblivious.”
“Often.”
“So are you.”
“And you’re not?”
“Adorable?” An overdramatic gasp is accompanied by me theatrically placing a hand over my black crop top covered chest. “Of course, I am.”
“Me vas a dar una úlcera.”
“You should probably worry less about me giving you an ulcer and more about the tequila killing your liver, counselor.”
Garcia briefly presses his lips together, abandons the knife on the cutting board, and reaches for the nearest dish towel to clean his hands. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“For a walk.”
“What am I, a Pomeranian?”
“You yip like one.”
This sharp suck of air isn’t for snickers, although it gets them.
“And right now, you’ve got a bunch of excess anxiety built up from being indoors all day that needs to burned off.
” He nonchalantly creeps around the island in my direction.
“We don’t have time for you to completely live your best mermaid life, but we can at least let you get your feet wet while dinner simmers. ”
My lowered jaw remains that way.
“And you might wanna close these,” purrs my cook for the evening as he gives my lips a taunting stroke, “before Master puts something in between them.”
Swallowing my whimper is difficult; however, making it impossible for him to do the same is the mission I have in mind when the tip of my tongue faintly strokes the digit caressing my mouth.
Heated grumbles escaping pull a victoriously vicious smirk onto my face that’s followed by him grumpily storming off.
Impishly, I call out after him, “Change your mind?”
“Changing my shoes,” he replies with his back to me.
Post me slipping into my sandals – not that I’ll be wearing them long – him putting on “acceptable footwear” – because not just any shoes can get covered in wet sand – and guaranteeing the food is at a low temperature – to stay warm versus overcooking – we cross the short distance down to the beach where I damn near instantly ditch the accessories I put on my feet.
Cool grit slinking between my toes effortlessly ignites ease throughout my system.
Convinces my shoulders to unhinge themselves from where they’ve become attached to my ears.
Sweet talks my spine into melting like an ice cream sundae left on the pier in the middle of summer.
Comfort curls against my arches each step and peace I’ve only known from the sounds of waves crashing croons to me every stride, insisting everything is fine.
Will be fine.
Balanced.
Complete.
That’s probably the thing I love about water the most.
It doesn’t simply cleanse.
It recalibrates.
Restores.
And as much as I hate to admit it – also will never admit it out loud – having both men constantly in my life is beginning to bring me a similar serenity.
I wanna get used to it.
But I don’t.
Pretty sure I shouldn’t.
Our stroll along the water starts in silence yet doesn’t remain that way for long due to curiosity getting the better of me.
Asking Garcia about the dish he whipped up leads to talking a little bit about his family, something I quickly realize we rarely discuss.
The conversation doesn’t take long to curl towards his sibling – who he is apparently pretty close to, which explains why she comes up often in casual conversation – and places they meet regularly for lunch or dinner.
Hearing him talk so fondly and openly and warmly – like he isn’t in front of a judge or jury or gallery – has a soft voice in the caverns of my mind whispering to keep going.
Keep him chatting.
Chill and vulnerable.
“Okay,” I flick a loose strand away from my forehead, “what’s the fanciest food you’ve ever eaten?”
A deep breath of contemplation precedes one hand sliding into his pocket. “That’s a good question.”
“I would never ask a bad one.”
“Just do bad things?”
“Precisely.”
Another round of small chortles is exchanged prior to him answering, “I guess…I would have to say…either Foie Gras or Jamon Iberico.” Our gazes momentarily connect during our turn to head back the way we came. “Both were served at work events I attended.”
“For the rich and famous, I presume.”
“Wealthy clients aren’t the only ones I serve; however, I do take their cases to aid in serving the ones that have significantly less like my best friend and his family – pre married life.”
“Nolan.”
“Sí.”
“Who is married to Kipp and Bunny?”
He lets the corner of his lips kick upward. “You do listen.”
“Always.” Leaning in a little closer occurs in between statements. “It’s the caring that’s wishy washy, not my hearing, counselor.”
“Sabes que odio que me llames así.”
“I do know you hate it when I call you that…that’s why I do it.”
“Of course it is, Princess.” The glare he’s thrown is accompanied by me purposely kicking a bit of sand at his pantleg. “Your turn.”
Quirking a quick eyebrow in his direction is all that’s done.
“What’s the strangest seafood dish you’ve ever had?”
“Either marmitako – which is fish stew made on the fishing vessel – or Tiradito – raw bluefin tuna thinly sliced with leche de tigre sauce – and a boiled sweet potato.”
“The latter is quite expensive.”
“It was,” I adjust the grip on my sandals, “but I’m worth it.”
“More.”
The flirtatious response receives a sweet, bashful beam that I do my best to bury.
“Yo vi eso.”
“You saw nothing.”
“I saw you smile.”
“First your memory, now your vision, Grandpa?” Playful tsking sounds escape. “I can only imagine your hearing is next.”
“Por qué?” He mirthfully hums. “Why do you give me so much shit?”
“Why do you give me so much shit?”
“Why do you answer a question with a question?”
“Why do you refuse to answer questions but expect everyone else to answer them?” I sassily counter.
“Why do you hate me?”
“Why do you hate the idea of us?”
“Why do you?”
This time my steps falter forcing me to look up and find his stare. “It isn’t the idea of ‘us’ that I hate, Garcia. It’s having an anchor.”
“Staying in one place.”
“Being weighed down in the wrong place.”
At that, his frame slides in front of mine to block further movement. “Is with me the wrong place?”
“Yes.”
His mouth bobbing in perplexity precedes him asking, “Is with Zero the wrong place?”
“Yes.”
“Is…with…us…both…the right one?”
Against my own volition I whisper, “That definitely feels more like a dock than an anchor.”
Garcia unexpectedly leans closer.
Uses two fingers to grab my chin.
Steal my breath.
“Then dock with us, Princess.”
“Not what that means,” impishly fills the small space.
Garcia releases a slightly irked sigh at the same time his hand falls back to his side. “You know what I mean.”
“I know you like to give me shit.”
“Because you like to give me shit.”
“Because you need someone whose balls are as big as yours…which are pretty fucking big…and I would know since I’ve had them in my mouth,” a devilish smirk can’t be stopped, “Master.”
An undeniably brutish grunt escapes alongside him pulling me closer by a handful of my ass. “You want them there again?”
“Wouldn’t mind them for dessert.”
“Entonces sé honesta conmigo.” He tightens his grip, prompting me to needily whimper. “Is there any part of you that’s willing to stick around after we’re finished and see where all this could go?”
I want to say yes.
I want to feel like I can say yes.
But I know him.
Or at least…I used to know him.
And his ways.
And people don’t change.
Not really.
Maybe for a minute.
Maybe for a moment.
But not forever.
Rarely forever.
The twisting in my chest tightens, strangling the words up the back of my throat, only to be cut off by a voice we both openly admit adoring, “There you are!”
Garcia glances over his shoulder while I simply peer around his frame at the panting younger male. “You aren’t actually out of breath, are you?”
“You’re far,” whines the guy we’re both crazy about. “And I…I…I ran the whole way here!”
“Why?” ponders Garcia in tandem with letting me go to face Zero.
“Because we’ve been summoned.”
“Summoned?” My arms fold defensively across my chest. “By?”
“Weslington.”