She stops, turns back toward me, walks a few steps in my direction, and smiles.
“Falling in love with me,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you are? Please. You are notallthat, Garcia.”
She shoves a cracker with the olive mixture into my mouth, which had been open due to shock from her sheer audacity.
“I’m just warning you now. It’s not a good idea.”
I scoff. “You definitely did not need to warn me about that. I’m not interested.”
Valentina gets distracted by a caterer dropping a sheet pan of zucchini. The pressure must be on since it’s the first night of Sofia’s extravagant wedding. I haven’t seen Valentina in years, but even I can see how stressed she is. The last time I saw her, she was a teenager ruining one of the biggest nights of my life. Now, she’s a chef leading a bunch of cooks to create a gorgeous event for Sofia. It’s honestly kind of impressive. I turn to the next page in the book.
“Rice pudding?” I mutter to myself.
“What’s that?” Valentina walks over after fixing another tray of zucchini to put in the oven, full speed ahead.
I turn my head over toward her, and she’s, once again, standing undeniably close to me. I can feel the warmth of her body. Or maybe it’s just the hot ovens in the kitchen. Whatever it is, I feel lightheaded. I look up quickly into her eyes and then shift my focus back to the book.
“Sorry, I was talking out loud to myself. This is my father’s journal. It’s supposed to be sprinkled with random things, but mostly recipes—ones I want to discover to impress Luciano and win the investment. But this one here…it’s a recipe for arroz con leche,” I say.
“And?”
“It’s just weird.” I pause, inspecting the little notes around the recipes.
One note in particular, written in small print, has caught my attention.
Valentina leans against the metal counter and crosses her arms, watching me, her eyes focused. I feel her presence next to me, and suddenly the air feels heavier. I try to ignore how close she is, but it’s impossible. Her attention, so undivided and sharp, makes my throat dry.
This journal is deeply personal. It’s my father’s—his words, his memories. I’ve barely touched the pages myself, and now Valentina is standing here, watching me leaf through them as if she has any right to see inside. A mix of irritation and something else—something I can’t quite place—flares up inside me.
She raises her eyebrows, silently encouraging me to continue. I shift uncomfortably but finally speak.
“Well, it’s just—my mother hates rice pudding. Like, absolutely hates it. She never even lets me have any in the restaurant despite customers requesting it.”
“So? Maybe he liked it, so he wrote a recipe for it. Or she used to like it.” Valentina shrugs.
“No, it’s not that. It’s this.” I point at the note my father left on the recipe.
“‘Her favorite,’” Valentina recites. “Now that’s interesting.”
She turns around and scooches closer to me, inspecting the recipe closer—the smell of her is, again, slightly intoxicating. Maybe there’s no “slightly” about it. I shake my head.
“Who could this be for then?” Valentina asks, but to no one in particular. Like a detective would, hoping the answer would appear out of thin air.
“I’m not sure,” I say, shrugging. “It has to be someone we know, right? Maybe even a guest here at the wedding?”
“It’s possible. He could have had a totally secret life, too, though.”
“Shut up,” I groan, almost insulted by the mention that my father would be a two-timing player with a double life.
“I’m just saying.” Valentina lifts her hands in surrender. “I’m sure it’s someone here, honestly. All of the family that is here was at our quinceañera. Even if it isn’t someone here, there is bound to be a cousin, uncle, or aunt that has the information we need. So what do you plan to do now? Ask every guest who likes rice pudding?”
I look down at the recipe. I considered doing that. Just interrogating every single person. But that wouldn’t get me much closer to an answer—lots of people like rice pudding. But maybe, just maybe, someone really lovesmy father’srice pudding. I need everyone to try my father’s recipe and gauge their reactions. Then, maybe I’ll know who he’s talking about and be one step closer to figuring out…whatever he’s trying to tell me. It’s a bit of a stretch, but I have to start somewhere. This is the first major clue and seems easy enough to get this investigation started.
Plus, as a bonus, Luciano can sample it too, bringing me one step closer to securing his investment.
“I have an idea,” I finally say as Valentina takes a sip of some leftover cafecito one of her staff made earlier.
