by Sera Taíno
She reached out to touch the metallic paint. “So pretty,” she whispered.
Philip sighed. “My dream car, though Étienne never misses a chance to drive her.”
“And you let him?” she answered, hugging herself against a breeze that blew in over the river. It had been an unseasonably warm April but the night air still nipped with the memory of winter.
Philip shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “He’s my best friend.”
Val considered him for a moment before turning away. “I’d be too scared to take it out of the parking garage.” She snuggled into his jacket, which distracted him a beat longer than it should have before he remembered himself and unlocked the door. She paused as she stepped inside the car. “You’re not some kind of billionaire, slumming it with the common folk, are you?”
“No. And I would hardly call spending time with you ‘slumming it.’”
“What would you call it, then?” Her face was so close to his—and the defiant tilt of her chin brought her even closer—it sent his thoughts swirling into chaos.
“A very good night.”
She pursed her lips, but it was clear from the smile she bit back that she liked his answer. Philip wasn’t actually a flirt by disposition. His father had taught him to think twice, even three times before he spoke for fear he might reveal weaknesses that others could exploit.
But with Val, he was letting all kinds of foolish things come out of his mouth, and he had to stop that or he might reveal more than he was ready to.
Once settled in the driver’s seat, he switched on the heat, the warm air pushing the exquisite notes of her fragrance through the interior of the car. He inhaled, which was a huge mistake. It snaked around him, inside him, until it was all he could taste.
Of course, she was oblivious to the minor crisis her proximity caused. “Whatever you’re up to, thank you.” She slipped her arms into the oversize sleeves, buttoning the jacket closed. “I hadn’t planned on being anywhere outside the club and didn’t bring a jacket.”
Her voice, which he discovered was deep and sharp when it wasn’t competing with loud music, brushed up against him with the same overwhelming intensity as her fragrance. “My jacket’s never looked better.”
He pulled out of Aguardiente’s parking lot, concentrating on Val’s street directions. He was lightheaded and scattered as he merged into the trickle of traffic along the boulevard.
“How long has Étienne known Malena?”
Philip glanced at her. “A few months. Étienne is taken with her. Do you know her well?”
Val shrugged. “Well enough. Gorgeous. Smart. A real type-A personality.”
“Étienne is the same way.” Philip chuckled. “He’s always running at top speed, and he hasn’t yet met anyone who can slow him down.”
“I guess that makes them either terrible or perfect for each other.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her lips kicking up into a smile before she turned to look out the window. Philip loved driving, but at that moment, he wished he didn’t have to. He wanted to stare at her profile as the lights flashed by, watch them trip themselves in her hair and stream around her nose and cheeks. The disparate parts of her face were nothing extraordinary by themselves, but arranged as they were, they captivated him.
“How about you?” she asked. “Have you ever met someone who made you want to slow down?”
He tore himself away from the prosaic meditation on her cheekbones. “Maybe.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m not sure yet.”
Val’s husky laugh complicated his predicament tenfold. “You are one smooth guy, Philip. You managed to flatter me and avoid the question at the same time.”
“Touché.” Philip grinned. “I dated someone while studying for my MBA. We were together for three years, and I thought we might be able to make things more permanent between us. But then her career exploded and there just wasn’t any room left for me.”
“Ouch.”
“Ouch, indeed.”
“What was her career anyway?”
“Choreographer.”
“Ah,” Val said. “Hence the look of terror when I asked you to dance.”
“Maybe.” He couldn’t blame his ex for his inability to dance. He’d hated dancing long before he’d met her. “Your turn.”
Val exhaled noisily, the exasperation clear. “That’s the problem with living in the same neighborhood all your life. Everybody knows everybody else’s business.” She squirmed in her seat, her legs dangerously distracting to his driving. “My ex and I dated for over two years until last summer, when I found out, very much in public, that he was committed to someone else.”
“In Aguardiente?”
“Bingo.”
“Ouch.”
“Ouch, indeed,” she mimicked, at which they both laughed.
“You know, that’s the first time I’ve actually laughed about breaking up with Luke.”
They were at a traffic light, waiting for it to turn green. Philip held her gaze—he couldn’t look away if he wanted. “Still stings, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, especially when everyone keeps reminding you how bad it was, or how sorry they are that it happened. Isn’t it the same for you?”
“I’d say a little less now.”
“Huh.” She turned away to stare out the window again, a more troubled expression reflected back against the backdrop of lights illuminating the darkness. It was clear that the relationship had brought her pain, and she’d endured it in a public way. She’d probably provided endless grist for the local rumor mill. This insight triggered something fierce and protective within him.
A horn honked behind him, and he drew his eyes away from her to focus on the road. After a few quiet minutes, they were on Clemente Avenue, a name Philip recalled, not only from their earlier conversation, but also from his work on the East Ward project. It was surreal to see this area outside of the context of his company’s business plans, its sleeping buildings almost vulnerable at this dark hour.
He pulled into an empty spot in front of a darkened storefront. The street was quiet, the neighborhood nothing like the one he lived in, characterized by starchy doormen and expensive security cameras. A niggling of guilt at the back of his mind reminded him of their earlier conversation about Wagner Developments, while street signs with familiar names mocked him. The light-rail station and old factory that were central to the company’s plans were two blocks away, and the sprawling tenement they’d purchased for renovation, the Victoria, was on this same street. Each landmark loomed ominous and bleak over them. Val wouldn’t take a second step with him if she knew of his company’s interests in this area.
“Here I am.” She pointed at a dark building on the corner, illuminated only by a flickering streetlamp.
He maneuvered into a parking space beneath the streetlamp and shut off the ignition. Before Val could get her door open, he made sure to be there, offering his hand for support. Under the glow of the lamp, he noticed the calluses punctuating the smooth skin of her palm, while thin scars decorated her hand like intricate latticework threaded through otherwise flawless skin. He could easily spend hours studying the topography of her fingers.
“You live here?” he asked, squinting to make out the red, white and blue awning sign that read Navarro’s Family Restaurant. Yes, this address was far too familiar and the sinking feeling grew more acute.
“Upstairs,” she answered.
“A mixed-use.” He recited the other details to himself. Four story. Eight units. Ground floor commercial space. Storage basement. He might as well have been reading directly from his design specs.
“All in one place.” Her voice pulled him out of his head. “My parents established the restaurant when they moved from Puerto Rico and thought it would be efficient to rent the floor directly above it.” She glanced
up at him, her brown eyes nearly black in the dim light. “It means everything to me. To us,” she murmured, almost to herself.
A curl clinging to her cheek beckoned to be smoothed behind her ear. He fisted his hand instead, repressing the impulse. “My father feels that way about his business. It’s like another child to him.” He didn’t add that his father loved his business almost to the exclusion of everyone else.
“It really is like having a baby.” She held on to him as she steadied herself on the pavement. “I...I know it’s late, but would you like some coffee before you go?”
He should go home. He, of all people, shouldn’t be with this person here, of all places.
“I’d love some.”
She led him around the side of the building to unlock a door at the top of a short flight of stone stairs. An automatic light flared to life from a fluorescent bulb above, forcing Philip to blink away the brightness. He was accustomed to assessing the character of buildings, and this one possessed it in spades. The walls were painted a flawless ecru and gold, and framed prints and pictures decorated the surface at perfectly spaced out intervals. Nothing like the antiseptic modernity of the foyer in his apartment building, where everything gleamed with premeditated elegance.
“Whoever maintains this building does a good job of keeping it up,” he said.
“All the tenants pitch in to take care of it.” She paused in front of a metal box next to another door and flipped the lid to punch in a code on the keypad.
Alarm deactivated, they stepped inside. Val switched on more lights and led him through an immaculate kitchen. They emerged behind a refrigerated service counter where pastries and sweets were arranged in tempting display. Woven baskets lined the back walls, while cake holders full of unfamiliar, cellophane-wrapped treats rested on the shelves.
Philip didn’t know what he’d expected from the unassuming exterior, but this cozy space was not it. Accustomed to the more calculated elegance of the restaurants he usually frequented, he was unprepared for the warmth that was so much like the woman who now kicked off her heels to slip into a pair of purple Crocs.
“You’re short,” he laughed, placing a hand on the top of her head. She barely grazed his chin.
“That’s why I wear these torture devices.” She quirked an eyebrow at him as she took his hand from her head and held it. The heat of her skin pressed warm and urgent into his. “Do you mind?”
“There’s nothing about you that I mind, so far.”
“Give it time.” She shrugged his jacket off her shoulders and handed it to him. He slung it over his arm, thinking it best to spare her the sight of him burying his nose in the fragrance she’d left behind.
“I’ll go in the back and make you a cup of coffee. Do you want regular, or something a little stronger, like espresso?”
“Espresso sounds good.”
“Won’t it keep you up?”
“No, it generally has the opposite effect on me. Weird biology, I suppose.”
Her expression uncertain, she disappeared behind the counter. The sound of opening cabinets and clanging pots cut through the silence. Philip browsed the family pictures of different children lining the walls, including an adorable young girl that had to be Val. A narrow glass case held basketball, baseball and cheerleading trophies. He circled the case, searching for the ones with Val’s name and found several track-and-field statuettes. He recalled her strong legs as she danced and pushed that distracting image out of his mind. A Puerto Rican flag hung from the ceiling alongside an American one, it’s broad, alternating red-and-white stripes and blue triangle imprinted with a single white star.
Accent walls not hung with photos were covered in murals depicting tropical scenes. One stood out, the images more stylized than the others. He stood before a land of coconut trees, white sand and perilous rocks plunging into the sea. Dense forests abutted the base of mountains that scraped against the bluest blue of the sky. There was no doubt. The painter was a gifted artist, delivering on the promise of an island tableau in the middle of a concrete jungle.
Coffee burbled from the kitchen, pulling him away from his thoughts. He followed the sound and aroma, struck by the odd jolt of happiness at the sight of Val, the way he’d felt when she’d returned from her dance. He found her standing in front of the stove, tending to an angular metal coffee machine.
“What’s that?” he asked, as a thin stream of black liquid escaped the seam and slid down, hissing into the flames.
“A cafetera.” She slipped on a worn cooking mitt and poured out the coffee.
“Coffee maker,” he murmured.
Val nodded. “A Moka machine, essentially. Do you speak Spanish?”
“Just enough to get into trouble.”
Val nodded thoughtfully. “Damn. Now I won’t be able to gossip about you.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Told you I’d do something you’d mind. Milk and sugar?”
“No milk, no sugar. I prefer my coffee bitter.”
Val poured a small cup with a flair that brought a smile to his face. He took a sip, relishing the deep, nutty flavor. “This is good. Thank you.”
She gave a small bow before pulling two stools from against the wall and inviting him to sit next to her. The hum of the refrigerator and the clicking of the icebox punctuated the silence as he sipped, savoring the heat and comfort of the brew.
“It must be a lot of pressure,” Val said at length.
Philip blinked in confusion. “What’s a lot of pressure?”
She shrugged. “Working for the company that your father owns.”
The thread of their earlier conversation returned to him. “It is but I was lucky, I guess. I happened to land in a career I enjoy. I don’t know what things might have been like if I’d hated my work. Isn’t it the same for you? Don’t you work with your father, too?”
Val nodded. “We’re co-owners. I’m the oldest, so things have always fallen on my shoulders. But I lucked out, too. I love cooking and I can’t imagine myself doing anything else.” Val stood, surprising him with her sudden explosion of motion. “I have an idea.” She raced around the kitchen, collecting a whirlwind of ingredients.
Philip drained the last of his small cup. “What are you up to now?” He watched as she broke chunks of dark chocolate into the pan, whisking it as it melted.
“It’s a surprise.” She gave him a bone-melting smile before returning to her work. She added cream and a pinch of powder that smelled like nutmeg, stirring the dark brown liquid. She removed the pan from the fire, set it aside and opened the double-door refrigerator, rummaging inside until she brought out a cake dish. Philip leaned on his hand and watched; her fluid movements were full of the confidence of knowing a space intimately.
“If you’re the oldest, how many brothers and sisters do you have?” he asked.
Val looked up from her work. “One each.” She poked the air with the silver cake cutter as she spoke. “There’s Natalía but we call her Nati. And Rafael is Rafi.”
“And what’s Val short for?”
She leaned in close as if she were sharing a secret. “Valeria.”
“Pretty. Like you.”
Val glanced down to cut the cake but she could not hide her smile completely. “You’re a flirt.”
“Not usually.” The desire that had so befuddled him in the car morphed into something warm and soft, like a homemade quilt his mother had once made in one of her domestic arts phases. The stitching had grown soft with overuse and the edges of the squares faded but he had spent many nights wrapped inside of it, soothed as if by her own hand.
“Anyway, this kitchen is my empire,” she continued, though there was a breathless quality to her words. “Rafi teaches math at the high school and Nati has one year left to finish her medical degree. I’m already planning her graduation party. I was thinking of
doing it at Aguardiente, since there’s both a kitchen and a dance area.” She pulled two plates from the cupboard. “Wow, I’m taking up all the oxygen in the room.”
“You’re lovely when you talk.”
Val dipped her head again, a smile hidden behind a curtain of thick, curly hair. This was a new side of her and he liked it. Shy Val, the one who didn’t know what to do with a compliment.
“How about you?” she asked.
“Me? No, I’m an only child, with all that implies.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, I bet you’re so spoiled.”
“The worst.”
She chortled as she picked up two plates and filled them with slices of a very wet cake before setting them in front of him. She returned with the pot of melted chocolate and poured the now-cooled liquid into a cup, handing it to him. Val fussing over him made him feel positively giddy. He raised the cup and took a sip. Chocolate and nutmeg melted on his tongue, sending a surge of pleasure through him.
“Puerto Rican hot chocolate,” she said, taking her seat again. “Maybe the sugar will perk you up.”
“You’re worried about me falling asleep at the wheel.” The thought of her fretting over his well-being gave him a warm feeling inside.
“Can’t help that you have strange biology. This is how I’m made. I’m a worrier.”
His eyes flickered to her strong hands, admiring the signs of use, and he wondered what other things she created with them. “No one’s worried about me in a very long time.”
He was learning to read her, so he was ready for her zinger. “In my family, worrying is an Olympic sport, so if you ever need someone to worry about you, feel free to borrow any of us.”
He smiled into his cup. “I appreciate the offer.”
If the chocolate had been bliss, the cake was pure decadence. Drenched in a thick vanilla cream, it slid smooth and potent over his tongue, its sweetness just shy of unbearable. “This tres leches is wrecking me.”