Sol (Love in Translation Book 1) by Leslie McAdam

Author:Leslie McAdam [McAdam, Leslie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-10-14T18:00:00+00:00

When I rang the bell of her apartment at eight o’clock that night, showered, shaved, and clean, holding a bouquet of white Gerbera daisies and a bottle of Rioja, she buzzed me in immediately. I was still getting used to these late hours in Spain. Restaurants didn’t even open for dinner until nine.

I climbed the four flights of stairs to her attic apartment, and knocked on her heavy wooden door decorated with black iron fittings. She wrenched it open and stood before me wearing a sundress with a neckline cut down so I could see her belly button.

Oh jeez, keeping my vow would be really, really hard, when temptation was right here.

She lifted up her face, and I kissed her. I wasn’t gonna take any kiss with her for granted. This one was sweet and slow, eyes dialed into each other. As I awkwardly wrapped my arms around her, arms laden, I learned that the navy blue dress was backless.

Double fuck me.

This woman would be my toughest challenge. “Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” Then she gave me the full-on Dani smile, wide and open-hearted, and said, “Come on in.”

I handed her the flowers and stepped inside. “These are so pretty!” she said, and went to find a vase. Quiet, old jazz played behind her. I liked it. I liked the way her long skirt swished around her ankles, draping to the floor, like it had a mind of its own.

“I brought you a red wine,” I called, as I peered out every window, checking for danger. Damn habits. “I didn’t know which one to pick, so I stood in the store until I saw someone else buy one, and then bought the same one.”

She emerged with the flowers in a hand-painted pitcher and two wine glasses. “That’s actually a great way of choosing a wine.”

So. Much. Skin showing. All the way down her front. Her little tits were covered, but everything else? Not so much.

Damn.

I set the bottle on the counter. “Are men allowed to pour wine?”

“Yep.” She handed me a corkscrew. “I hope you like a tortilla.”

I cocked my head to the side, as I cut off the foil on the wine, latching onto the distraction so I didn’t embarrass myself with a hard-on. “Sure.” Was that what we were having for dinner?

She giggled. “Not a flour tortilla. A Spanish tortilla. It’s an omelet with potatoes.”

“Oh, okay. Sounds good.”

With a pop, I managed to get the cork out and poured us two glasses of wine. We sat at the tiny table in her kitchen, set for two, with the omelet and a salad and some fresh bread.

She and I gathered at the table to enjoy a simple meal together. We hadn’t done this since we were kids. We’d never done it just the two of us. I could do this the rest of my life.

Not like I could tell her that. So all I said was, “Thanks for having me over.”

“My pleasure. Salud,” she said, and clinked her glass with mine.

“Salud.”

I took a bite of her cooking, and tasted the way the simple dish was perfectly cooked and flavored.

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