Chapter Twenty-One
Their plane hit down in the state of Jalisco and the glass containing the Bloody Mary Jaime was drinking rattled.
Was it from his nerves or from the turbulence?
He’d been to Mexico many times before with his brothers and his friends—to Cabo to party, to Cuernavaca to learn Spanish, though even with a month of daily tutoring he still couldn’t speak it, to Mexico City for a San Diego Padres versus San Francisco Giants baseball game, and to Puerto Vallarta to see Julieta’s mom Linda’s original taco stand—the place where his father ate his first fish taco, stole her recipe, and sparked an idea that would result in all his, and frankly their, wealth.
But Jaime had never been to the country of his ancestry with a woman that he’d once loved.
That maybe he still did.
And he couldn’t wait to spend the full week with her. Though normally his time in Mexico was spent surfing, this time he would be exploring a part of Jalisco he had never been to—particularly the city of Guadalajara.
Guadalajara. A city so steeped in culture.
Jaime had bought an old-school travel guide at the airport and already learned so much about this city.
It was cool. He’d had no idea that Guadalajara was the birthplace of so many iconic traditions in Mexican culture.
Traditions that even Jaime, a third-generation Mexican-American, loved and appreciated.
From mariachi and ranchera music, to tasty birria-style tacos, to jaripeo, a form of bull riding, Guadalajara was such an exciting, dynamic city.
But of course, it was most famous for tequila, his newfound passion.
Jaime was taking a brief tequila break and had opted for vodka. Plane tequila was never good anyway.
He didn’t want to talk about their past anymore. Or their future. He just wanted to enjoy their time together.
A vacation was supposed to be romantic, adventurous, historical, but never, ever uncomfortable.
He wanted to grab her hand—she looked so stunning sitting next to him on the plane—but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Not yet.
How weird was it that they’d had sex the other week, but he felt holding her hand was more intimate? Man, he was fucked-up. Though based on what she said at the café, she probably agreed.
But maybe something on this trip would change between them.
Maybe she would finally look at him the way she once had many moons ago. With not just love, but with hope instead of sadness.
“Let’s go.” She pulled on his sleeve, which caused his skin to tingle.
He had upgraded them to the best hotel in Guadalajara, but Alma wasn’t easily impressed by such things like other girls he had dated, who often expected such luxuries.
She was making great money now. She didn’t need his—not that she ever had.
Back when they had been dating in college and Alma didn’t have much disposable income, Jaime never, ever thought that she was using him in any way, shape, or form.
It was one of the things that had initially attracted him to her.
Jaime met their limo, and the driver drove away from the airport. He drove down a long and winding road. Even though they arrived at the hotel late at night, lights lined the trees.
Alma smiled. “Wow. This place is stunning.”
“Glad you like it.”
The resort had beautiful Spanish architecture and a lavish long pool he would love to relax in.
He had almost booked them into a boutique hotel where they could stay in a blue agave field in rooms that were shaped like barrels.
It was in a distillery, but he’d decided to let Alma lead on any agave activities.
The restaurant was already closed, so they ordered room service.
Jaime had high hopes for another sexy night, but when he went to put their trays outside their room, he returned and found Alma fast asleep. Jaime tucked her in bed and kissed her on the forehead.
He didn’t even try to touch her that night. Tomorrow would be a new day, and he would get a read on her temperature toward him.
—
The next morning, Jaime ordered them breakfast in bed. Alma had a yogurt bowl with fruit, and he had a delicious omelet, both with fresh juices, pastries, and of course, copious amounts of coffee.
Alma was wearing a white slip dress and Jaime wanted to rip it off of her and fuck her until she screamed his name. She was breathtaking. Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders and the contrast with that dress made her look like a naughty angel.
He tapped a brochure that he had picked up in the lobby. “I know part of this trip was for your work, so I didn’t want to impose and schedule activities, but I’m happy to if you want me to.”
She tossed her hair. “It’s okay. I have everything set up.”
“What did you have planned today?”
“Oh sorry, I wasn’t trying to be vague. Today, we are going to go to an agave farm. It will be a treat for you. You can see how the agave is harvested.”
That sounded great and also super useful.
Jaime still hadn’t abandoned the idea of starting his own tequila company, though now he was focused on his growing feelings for Alma.
Partaking in Alma’s curated tasting experience had made him truly appreciate the different types of tequila.
He was very excited to go to the farm. And spend more time with her.
“I can’t wait. Let’s go.”
“Would you like to stop in town with me first?” She slipped one sexy foot into her shoe, then the other. “I want to explore a bit, and they aren’t expecting us until later.”
“Sounds good.” He needed to get out of this room ASAP—anything to stop himself from worshipping those legs and the heaven to which they led.
Jaime had been looking forward to seeing the town, exploring the vibrant heart of Mexico, and now, as the sights and sounds of Guadalajara enveloped him, with Alma by his side, it felt surreal.
The air was filled with the rich aroma of street food, the sizzle of carne asada grilling on open flames mingling with the sweet scent of churros. Even though they had just eaten, Jaime’s stomach growled in response.
He ordered a few tacos for them and some churros for dessert from a vendor.
They shared their food and compared the flavors to those of the same dishes back home. It was easy to say that the local cuisine was better here, though he would exclude Julieta’s tacos from that statement. But there was something about being in Mexico that made the food taste even better.
Maybe it was the company.
As they wandered through the lively mercado, his senses were assaulted by a kaleidoscope of colors.
Stalls overflowed with bright textiles, handcrafted pottery, and sparkling jewelry.
Alma ran her fingers over a delicately embroidered blouse, marveling at the craftsmanship.
He thought she was going to buy it, but she received a call and left the stand abruptly.
Jaime lingered for a bit and purchased the top for her.
“Everything okay?”
She nodded. “Yes. Carlos had a quick question about a delivery. He’s helping out while I’m gone. Thank God for international cell service.”
“He’s the best.”
Jaime presented her with the blouse.
She blushed. “Jaime. You shouldn’t have.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
The voices around them were a symphonic blend of laughter, bargaining, and the rhythmic cadence of Spanish.
Jaime caught snippets of conversations, his limited Spanish intertwining with his excitement, creating a melody of linguistic exploration.
Alma kindly translated random words when he asked, and he vowed to become fluent in Spanish when he returned home.
He had tried before. Maybe he was bad at languages. The harder he wanted to learn, the more difficult it seemed to be.
Maybe he just needed to be here. Immersed in the culture.
Drawn by the sound of mariachi music, they found themselves in the town square. A group of musicians clad in silver-buttoned charro suits played with such passion that the notes seemed to dance in the air. Alma swayed to the rhythm.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked her.
“You danced so well the other night,” she said, coy, twirling a strand of hair around one finger.
“I was just warming up.” He winked and held out his hand, then pressed his body against hers, her heart beating in time with the music against his chest.
They continued their exploration, each turn bringing new wonders. In a quaint café, they savored a cup of rich, aromatic coffee, its flavor a bold embrace of the region’s spirit. The barista shared stories of local legends, his words painting pictures of mystical creatures and brave heroes.
When they were done exploring the city center, their driver took them on a long journey out to the farm.
The afternoon sun was rising over the vast expanse of the agave fields, making the endless rows of spiky plants look equally menacing and beautiful.
The driver stopped and let them out. Jaime pulled Alma into his chest. But he didn’t kiss her.
In the midst of this sea of green plants, a woman stood, her hands wrapped around the handle of a tool. Her skin was kissed by the sun, and beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, but her eyes sparkled with a passion for her craft.
“Welcome. My name is Gabriela. I’m a jimadora. I’m excited to welcome you to my farm.”
“Nice to meet you, Gabriela. I’m Jaime, and this is Alma.”
She smiled and pointed to the tool. “This is a coa, the traditional tool used to harvest agave.”
Gabriela began to tell them about her story.
She had grown up on this plantation, learning the art of tequila making from her father.
He had never had any sons but proudly passed his knowledge on to his daughter, who became one of the first female jimadores, or jimadoras.
It was more than a livelihood; it was a heritage, a tradition that flowed in her veins as surely as the agave sap flowed through these plants.