Let the evening begin.
Alma slowly walked toward the door; her breathing quickened. Why was she so nervous? She had just seen him yesterday.
She opened the door and Jaime stood there holding two bouquets of flowers—zinnias in vibrant shades of violet, yellow, orange, and white. But Alma’s gaze quickly left the blossoms and locked with Jaime’s.
It was almost like she was seeing him for the first time.
Laugh lines bracketed eyes full of sunshine. His jawline, so strong, so pronounced, was the perfect underscore for the fullness of his lips. His shirt stretched against broad shoulders. Had he always been this handsome?
That answer was yes.
Maybe this was a turning point.
But Alma could never forget the past. Forgive, she could try. But her harrowing recovery made moving forward with Jaime an unlikely possibility.
His eyes danced up and down her body, and he grinned. “Hi. You look beautiful.” He pecked her on the cheek.
What surprised Alma most was that even though they had been apart for so many years, the chemistry between them was still electric.
Mamá emerged from the kitchen, trailed by her husband and son.
“Hola, Señora Garcia. Thanks for inviting me to dinner. I brought these for you.” He presented her with the flowers.
Mamá hugged Jaime as if he was her son-in-law. “Mijo, thank you for coming.”
Carlos high-fived him, and Papá shook his hand.
Her brother showed Jaime this new video game he had just bought, and Jaime sat next to him on the sofa. Alma milled nervously in the background.
After a few minutes had passed, she decided she’d had enough of the awkward greeting shenanigans. It was time to start this evening. She would begin with the most important part. The beverages.
She was tempted to run to the outside bar and make them by herself, but she had decided to show Jaime how it was done since he wanted to start a liquor line.
“Jaime, I’m going to make margaritas outside. Want me to show you how?” she asked in Spanish.
His face contorted. “I understood margaritas.”
Ay! How did he still not know Spanish? It wasn’t his fault exactly for not being raised bilingual, but he could’ve taken the time to learn. Alma vowed to only speak to her children in Spanish.
“Do you want to learn how to make margaritas?”
Jaime stood from the couch fast, like a Marine called to attention.
“Sure. I’d love to.”
He followed her to the patio. Alma made sure to swing her hips as she walked. She wasn’t trying to tease him—just torture him a bit for good measure.
They stood alone in the backyard, her body just inches from his.
She grabbed a knife from the bar—she needed something to cut the tension.
“So, we’re going to make a spicy jalapeño margarita. I’m using a high-end tequila blanco with one hundred percent blue Weber agave, but any tequila can work for this drink because it’s really the flavors of the cucumbers and jalapeños that shine. This is something easy that you can whip up in advance for parties.”
He tugged on her hair. “So, what you’re saying is you think I buy cheap liquor.”
Alma laughed. “No, I’m not saying that at all. I personally know how flashy you can be. When we go to my bar, we can do a tasting so I can show you the different intricacies of the higher-end tequilas. I wanted to make this one tonight because my mom loves everything with a kick—even her drinks.”
Alma took down a clean large mason jar from the shelf. She had built this outside entertaining space for her parents once Mezcalifornia became a success. “You can chop the jalapeños.”
