25. TIAGO #2
I order a range of dishes for the table – creamy guacamole con totopos, elotes covered in cotija, queso fundido scooped with crispy tortillas, four types of sauce, and a fuckton of tacos. I have this inexplicable need for her to love Hispanic culture.
‘I’m going to teach you, little only child, how to share,’ I say.
‘Who says I can’t share?’
‘Can you?’
‘I can share, I just prefer not to,’ she murmurs.
Her eyes brighten when our table starts filling, and my heart inflates. She starts rearranging plates and moving glasses out of the way to take a couple of photos. The woman’s an artist, carefully balancing light to make the food look even more delicious.
When she starts to eat, it’s delicate, like she’s at tea with the queen. The way she moves is precise, like she overthinks everything, like she’s exceptionally controlled. She really doesn’t know how to let go, which is odd since she had no problem in bed.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, pausing scooping cheese on my tortilla.
‘I’m eating corn on the cob?’
‘With a knife and fork?’ She’s looking at me like she doesn’t get it. ‘This is finger food, Butler. Put your tools down.’
Her gaze sharpens. ‘You’d know all about corn, wouldn’t you, Cap’n?’
Ignore her. Ignore her. ‘You can be messy for once in your life.’
She seems to find a challenge in that. ‘I can be messy.’ A smile plays on her lips as she wipes her cutlery on the side of her plate and sets them aside. ‘You saw the other night.’
Well if that doesn’t make a man blush.
‘I’m glad you brought that up,’ I say, chewing.
‘Mm?’
‘We need to talk about your titties.’
She chokes on corn, shielding her mouth with her fist. ‘What about them?’ she asks, strangled.
‘They’re spectacular. Please pass on my regards to your doctor.’
She looks amused. ‘I will.’
‘Are they the only things you’ve had done?’
Her lips break into a smile and she sits back. ‘Guess.’
A bigger man would shrink away, afraid to hurt her feelings. But I’m not a bigger man. I’ve been tested by women my whole life and I’m not about to start backing down now.
I take in her face. It’s perfect. Too perfect. Faultless symmetry; full lips; sharp cheekbones; immaculate skin. I think about the rest of her body – tight ass, flat stomach, great titties, and toned everything. I also remember her saying something about her nose being different when she was young.
‘I’d say buccal fat removal to give you those cheekbones.
Jawline contouring for that snatched jaw.
Little bit of chin filler, maybe, to help with symmetry.
Masseters, of course, everyone gets that.
Brow lift, CO2 resurfacing laser, definitely veneers.
You’re a little young for heavy Botox but you don’t have a single crease so I’m thinking maybe a little for mid-face support.
Obviously tits, nose – though it does look very natural so you wouldn’t know – and my guess is a BBL and a spot of lipo to help with toning. ’
When I finish, she’s gaping at me.
‘Am I close?’ I nudge.
She bursts out laughing. It’s the first time I’ve made her laugh like that, amusement that doesn’t just reach her eyes but it fills them.
My heart clenches in the strangest way. ‘No,’ she coughs into the back of her hand.
‘How do you know all that? Do you have a Mormon Wives obsession I don’t know about? ’
‘My mom hasn’t frowned since the nineties.’ I shrug, going for a taco el pastor. ‘People aren’t born as hot as you. They make themselves hot.’
‘Don’t call me hot.’
‘Why not?’
‘I…’ She wriggles uncomfortably. ‘I don’t like compliments.’
I slam a hand on the table. ‘Are you kidding me right now? You literally live off validation from others.’ I chuckle into my glass. ‘It’s your entire lifestyle.’
‘I know but… I’m British. That trumps it.’
This woman’s such an enigma. ‘What have you had done then?’
‘Just my breasts, a little lip filler, and my nose twice, but that was because of a tennis accident when I was a teenager. I looked like Owen Wilson for a couple of years, and I breathed like a pug.’
It’s my turn to burst into hysterics. ‘So you’re pro plastic surgery?’
‘If it’s for the right reasons, I am. Mine weren’t, really. Not my boobs, at least.’
Why do I have the creeping suspicion this has something to do with Damian Reisner? I don’t want to bring him up and upset her when we’re finally co-existing in harmony. The addendum’s barely ten minutes old – touching a nerve might nuke it.
I change route: ‘Do you ever talk about this stuff with the guys you date? Do they get a chance to know you?’
She looks down at her plate. ‘If they knew me, they wouldn’t like me.’
Isn’t that categorically untrue. She fingers her birria taco, systematically piling the fallen contents back in place. I want to tell her I like her – not when she’s shoving doors in my face and threatening me with karate, but like this? What’s not to like?
‘That’s not—’
‘And even if they did, no man can handle an ambitious woman. Not really. Not honestly.’
‘I can.’ It comes out like a reflex. I’m not trying to seduce her or anything, but I don’t want all men lumbered under the umbrella of chickenshit.
Her look’s sceptical. ‘Really.’
‘I love strong women. Every woman in my family’s strong. My mom’s from one of the worst barrios in Bogotá, then she became Miss Colombia, married a billionaire, and now she’s one of the richest women in South America.’
‘Wow, that is inspiring. I think I love her.’
I snort. ‘If you met her, you wouldn’t know she’s from the barrio – until you met her brothers. They’re scary motherfuckers. Their faces are covered in tattoos and they walk around with snakes. And don’t ask me how I know this, but I’m 95% sure one was involved in an armed robbery last year.’
Her eyebrows fly up. I guess they don’t have snake-wearing grocery store robbers in shiny London.
‘How do you like your food?’ I ask.
‘Everything’s divine. Especially the birria. I could eat twenty more of these.’
That’s my girl. I mean, not my girl. It’s just… good to hear.