Chapter one
I’mburnedout.
A woman with charred edges, a hollow center, and so bone tired no amount of sleep will ever make a difference.
It’s the price I pay for perfect service, glowing reviews, and a restaurant people whisper about as the future of Spanish dining in the PacificNorthwest.
Sadly, I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a meal without reducing it to numbers on a spreadsheet.
All of it’s been worth it, I think. Hard work has played a huge part in rebuilding my family’s legacy.
Delgado Cocina Española started as my father’s dream thirty years ago. A kitschy Spanish-themed diner complete with flamenco posters on the walls, paella drowning in saffron, and laminated menus curling at the corners. The restaurant was our entire family life. My brother, sister, and I worked alongside my parents from the time I could walk.
I loved it. Something was missing.
At eighteen I bolted to find my roots. First in Madrid then Seville and finally Barcelona, where, for three years, I learned how to cook from some of the finest chefs in the world.
I survived kitchens designed to break me and came home with scars, burns, skill, and a hunger to tear the old place down to its bones.
It took some convincing, but my parents believed in my vision and we gutted it. Modernized the space into a fine-dining establishment complete with season-driven menus and wine lists celebrating Spain using ingredients from the Pacific Northwest.
Now critics come from around the world. Foodies beg for reservations. My father, who should have retired years ago, still takes care of the customers while I oversee the rest of the details from top to bottom.
Ten years later, and I don’t know which end is up.
Somehow, my family noticed. My mom and dad conspired with Marcella, my older sister, lawyer, best friend, and eternal thorn. The three of them staged a kitchen ambush last week, blocking the walk-in door until I promised not only to take a vacation, but to stay out of the restaurant for anentiremonth.
Which is how I ended up here at SeaTac, boarding a flight to Barcelona clutching a ticket reading Seat 2C.
The first-class cabin glows with gold light, a cathedral of quiet wealth. Suites are arranged 1–2–1. One by each window, two in the center, another single across. I slide into the center seat. The soft, buttery leather hugs me in a way the booths back home never do.
A flute of champagne appears before I can protest. I take a sip. Dry, tart, faintly apple. I set it down fast, scared I’ll start to enjoy myself and then realize, I’msupposedto be having fun.
I take another swig as my phone buzzes three timesin succession.
Marcella: No emails. Your job is to sleep, eat and hopefully find someone to tickle your kitty.
Mamà: Have fun! We love you.
Papà: Don’t worry about anything. Enjoy your time away!
God love the three of them. They’re annoying as fuck but their hearts are in the right place. I switch my phone off. If they want me to relax, I’m gonna start now by ghosting them for doing this to me.
The overhead clicks shut across from me, causing me to glance over.
A man slides into 2D next to me.
Time slows, rewinds, rearranges. He’s tall, six feet at least. Long lines and controlled movement. Olive skin. Dark-brown hair, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Sleeves rolled, revealing forearms meant for both tasting and teasing.
My breath catches unexpectedly. I have to shift in my seat because my pussy pulses and my panties become damp.
No.
Not happening. This trip isn’t about men. My history proves I pick disasters. Line cooks who drink through prep. Food vendors who sob like babies when I’m too busy to spend time with them. Bartenders who kiss and steal in the same breath.
I glance at my reflection in the black screen across from me. In the real world, I have no apron to hide behind. My wardrobe is abysmal. Today I’m wearing worn black jeans, a fitted tank under a hoodie and plain boots. My hair is twisted into a high knot, held together by a giant hair claw. Without any makeup, freckles are visible across my cheeks.
I’m not glamorous. Certainly not first-class sleek. Especially next to this guy. He exudes expensive. Women probably trip over themselves for a smile I haven’t seen yet.
