Somehow, her acceptance of the woman I love makes it real.
Chapter thirteen
Two Days Later
Thegreenhillsfoldinto each other beyond the terrace.
A bell rings from the village below, its echo winds through the vines.
I think of home, of my father who taught me to taste before I could read a recipe. I miss myparents. My sister and my brother too. Even the restaurant, though I’m truly enjoying this time off.
On the other hand, I’ve never been happier. Everything moves slower here. Meals stretch, laughter lingers, flavors breathe. Santiago keeps finding ways to show me food doesn’t need to impress. It needs tomeansomething.
Somewhere between these hills and his loving, I remember why I fell in love with cooking in the first place.
He left twenty minutes ago to pick up dinner from a little bodega down the road. We’ve had enough artfully plated tasting menus. Tonight, we both want grease and garlic. Something simple we can eat with our hands.
While I wait for him to get back, I’m curled into a chair on the terrace of our boutique hotel checking messages, a wine glass filled with cava in my hand. I haven’t looked at my phone in days and when I do it’s blown up with texts and voicemail.
All Marcella.
Easily fifty texts, a few threatening to fly from Seattle if I don’t give her proof of life. There’s a few dozen voicemails, one from about an hour ago where she threatens, “answer your phone or I willendyou.”
I grin and push FaceTime. It connects instantly.
“Okay, okay. I’m alive. Please don’t call Interpol.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence. Then—“Holy shit. You’re not in a ditch.”
I can’t help but laugh heartily. “Not even close.”
“Where are you?” Her face fills the screen, long chestnut hair wound up in a bun.
“In wine country. Outside Barcelona.”
Another beat. Then she quirks a brow. “There’s aman.”
“How do you know?” My cheeks redden.
“Uhhh…you’ve gone totally off-grid, your voice sounds raspy from sex and lack of sleep, and you’re drinking wine somewhere rural?” She tsks me through her teeth. “Oh, there’s a man.”
“Fine.” I shrug and take a sip of wine, unbothered. “Yes.”
Marcella exhales like she’s been holding her breath for days. “Tell me everything.”
I don’t tell her everything. Only the basics like we met in first class on the flight over. Talked for six straight hours. He asked me to meet him for wine after his business meetings, I said yes, we slept together and haven’t been apart since.
By siphoning out the details, I’ll admit the story sounds trite.
I don’t tell her how it felt when he looked at me like I wasn’t just Rosa the chef. I don’t say how the minute we kissed, my body remembered something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet. I don’t try to explain how he touches me like I’m fragile and feral at the same time. Or the way he looks at me like he’s memorizing every breath I take.
Instead, I tell her we’ve been traveling and how I’ve seen the sunrise from Tibidabo, stood in a cloister so quiet I forgot how to breathe. About the best garlic shrimp of my life. And the quaint plaza where old men drink vermut and kids kick soccer balls into fountains.
When I mention he introduced me to his family, how his mother cooked dinner and I met his brother, sister-in-law, their kids, Marcella whistles. “This isn’t a fling.”
I nod. “I know.”
“You sound different.”
