Sombra Page 5

  Even if I knew what he was thinking, does he think in a different language?

  Likely.

  Would I understand?

  Likely not.

  I wonder if language gets in the way of true communication?

  I’m getting really scared that he knows I’m aroused. Having him this close is throbbingly painful. His lower lip is right there. Is it bad that the first thought I have about his lip is that it’s juicy? I want to bite it. I could just kiss him.

  “Hey,” I whisper.

  “Hey,” he whispers back. “You’re home.”

  Home. I like the idea of Spain being my new home, and my eyes open wider. I tense up my shoulders.

  A shake of his head makes him straighten up, then he pulls back and rights his body outside the car—and I come to my senses.

  No.

  Hell to the absolute no. Oh my stars, I’m starting to swear.

  My brain jangles around while he strides to the back of the car. I’ve forgotten who I am. What I am.

  My promise.

  My boyfriend.

  I’ve forgotten everything. One plane ride, and I’m suddenly a vamp.

  I’m so stupid.

  Nausea bubbles up inside my belly. Heat tingles on my face. The ring on my finger now burns with shame.

  This isn’t how I behave. I’ve never considered dating anyone except Shane. I’ve only ever been with him.

  And I’ve promised to come back to him. Sort of. I guess I never actually said it. But I didn’t deny it.

  I hunch down in my seat. Time to forget my sex dream. For once, I’m wishing for the normal kind of naked dreams—the stressed-out, nightmare, pre-finals variety. Like, where I have to give a speech to the whole auditorium, but I’ve forgotten my notes, and I’m standing there trying to remember what to say. No clothes on means no pockets for my outline.

  Moving on.

  I suppress a yawn, not wanting to be rude, and step out of the car, then observe my surroundings.

  This place is incredible!

  The golden afternoon sunshine bathes the property in appealing light. We’re parked in front of a set of ancient buildings surrounded by silvery-gray olive trees. A door opens on the closest building, a rambling two-story stone house, and a hundred million people emerge. More or less, anyway.

  Will they like me?

  Tavo pulls out my bags from the trunk, sets them on a low stone wall, and gives me an encouraging chin lift.

  I’m gonna need divine intervention to make it through all these introductions without betraying to my new host family that my only thought is relieving the tension between my legs.

  A skinnier, younger Tavo, with long hair in a ponytail arrives first, almost skidding in the dust, all cheeky enthusiasm and nonstop talking. He’s just as handsome as his older brother, but bursting at the seams with energy. He talks double-quick. I catch one word out of every five.

  “¡Hola! Kim, la estadounidense. ¿Cómo estás? ¡Mucho gusto conocerte!” He leans in and kisses me on both cheeks.

  Like Tavo at the airport.

  Is he a lady-killer, too?

  I mess up the kiss, not knowing which way to turn, because he surprises me with it. I end up almost kissing him on the mouth.

  Letting out a breath, I allow my eyebrows to raise and lower and collect myself. “Uh, hola.”

  Mini Tavo keeps talking at light speed. “Soy el hermano menor de Tavo y me llamo Guillermo. ¿Cómo fue el viaje?”

  He’s asked me a question. I can tell it’s a question because his intonation goes up at the end, but the words all run together, and I don’t know what he asked.

  I stand, grinning at him like an idiot, unable to say anything. The sharp realization comes to me: all of my previous Spanish teachers were useless morons who taught me nothing. I can speak barely a word of real Spanish.

  Despite four years of study!

  I feel so dumb. The grin fades on my face, and I blink in the sunlight, panicking. “Lo siento,” I finally gulp out, “No entiendo.”

  Tavo leans in. “Guillermo just asked you how your trip was.”

  Giving him a grateful glance, I turn to Guillermo. “Oh! Bien. Gracias.” I catch Tavo’s eye. “I’m not used to actually speaking Spanish. More just reading it in class. Quiero aprender.” I save my violent thoughts for my teachers for a later time.

  Tavo beams. “You will learn. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of my family. He whispers, “I got you, guapa.” An older woman overhears him say this, and his face immediately becomes more distant. It’s odd. Did I do something wrong? Did he?

  Guapa. Shane never really compliments me on anything. I know he appreciates my appearance. Right? He must, otherwise he wouldn’t be with me. But as I rack my brain, I can’t think of a time he let me know I looked nice other than when we dressed up for a fancy occasion.

  Tavo, on the other hand, seems to compliment me with every sentence.

  I like that.

  A dark-haired beauty, the one who made Tavo’s face straighten, extends her slim hand to shake mine. She’s wearing a red blouse and black slacks. Leaning in, she gives me two kisses, one on each cheek. Like Tavo at the airport and Guillermo just now.

  Now I really don’t feel so special. This must be the standard, Spanish-style greeting.

  I read too much into those kisses at the airport.

  My libido vanishes, and I’m grateful for the cold shower of reality. I don’t need to be all sexed up here in Spain. It’s going to be hard enough just to understand basic sentences.

  As she kisses my cheek, I get a whiff of her baby powder-like perfume, and do my best not to kiss her nose.

  I’ll catch on.

  Tavo introduces me to the woman, and he does it like I’m an honored guest and he’s introducing me to someone who matters to him.

  “Kim, bienvenidos,” she says. “Me llamo María Luisa. Soy la madre de Tavo y la dueña de esta granja.” While her words are pleasant, her jaw is set and her eyes narrowed.

  I understand about every third word. In summary, she’s Tavo’s mother.

  This is going to be a long semester.

  After taking longer than is socially appropriate to respond, I finally say. “Um, encantada.”

  She immediately switches to thickly accented English. “We are pleased you are here. Were your travels good?”

  “Sí. The flight passed so fast. I can’t believe I’m in Spain!”

  I’m so grateful she’s housing me, but she still has a reserved look on her impassive face. No warm smile. Again, is this a Spanish thing or her personality?

  Another brother steps forward interrupting her, slaps Tavo on the chest, and starts saying something rapid-fire. “Hombre, ¿Cómo no me dijiste que era tan bonita la guiri?”

  The noise from Tavo is almost a growl. “Mantente alejado de ella, Antonio. Es mía.”

  Antonio cracks up laughing at whatever Tavo said. He’s handsome like Tavo and Guillermo, but his hair is shaved almost in a buzz cut, and he has braces on his teeth, which make his grin goofier. He turns to me and asks, “¿Todas en los Estados Unidos son tan hermosas como tú?”

  Now Tavo really growls, shooing him back. “Joder. Antonio, sal de aquí.”

  “Vale, vale. Es tuya.” He reaches in, kisses my cheeks, and says, “Bienvenidos.” Then he raises a suggestive eyebrow at me, turns to Tavo, cackles in laughter, and beats a retreat. Okay, so he’s a flirt like his younger brother. I’ll watch it around him, too.

  “Mucho gusto,” I call after him and wave.

  Tavo introduces me to his grandfather, who steps forward, dapper in a sweater vest and a snap-front hat, even though it’s not by any means cold. He kisses my cheeks, too.

  This time, I figure it out and internally congratulate myself for learning how to be kissed in Spain.

  “Es un placer conocerte,” his grandfather says. He has the same eyes and proud air as Tavo, but his hair is shorter and neater. I can’t help thinking if Tavo grows up to resemble his g
randfather, he’ll be an outstanding specimen of man. Hoo-boy.

  More and more people step forward to meet me. I’m introduced to Tavo’s grandmother, aunt, uncle, sister, and another guy who I think is the sister’s boyfriend. I’ve now officially been kissed by more people than I have in my entire life, and I’m appreciative of the gentle respect with which Tavo takes care of me.

  While thankfully, most of them try to speak English to me, it’s almost as hard to understand their English as their Spanish. Their English pronunciation follows Spanish norms, like not saying the h in hello, so I need a moment to understand what they said, even though it’s in my language. And their real-world Spanish isn’t like my college class, where we spoke slowly, repeating everything, with long pauses between words. I figured it would be hard, but not this hard.

  Also, I’m the center of attention. In Iowa, everyone always knew what I was doing, where I was going, and who I was doing it with, since I lived with my parents. Not that I ever did anything interesting. But here, it’s another level. Like major league everyone in your business. I can’t imagine keeping anything from this family. There are just too many of them.

  Tavo steers me away from the family, saying something in Spanish that gets them to back off. I think he’s saying to give me a chance to rest. “Allow me to show you to your room.”

  My mouth dries and adrenaline rushes through me as I’ll finally see where I’ll stay for the semester. I wave so long to everyone and follow Tavo, who’s carrying my bags, into the stone farmhouse. I could do it, but I’m sure Tavo wouldn’t hear of it. While I’m good with being a competent, modern woman, it’s a luxury to be treated like this.

  He glances over his shoulder and gives me his smile, which makes my breath stutter. Will I ever get used to it? “I will give you a tour later, but I think you want to see your room now, no?”

  “Yes.” I nod vigorously, getting slightly lightheaded. While I want to explore the grounds of this historic farm, I can’t help but ogle him as we walk. His tight ass in those jeans is scrumptious. He has a swagger to the way he walks. Like he’s secure in who he is and his place in the world.

  We enter the ancient stone house through a heavy, dark wooden door, and step into an enormous old kitchen.

  It fascinates me—I just love other people’s kitchens.

  Huh. That’s something I didn’t realize I’d shunted aside until I came here, but I’ve always loved to be in a kitchen. Mom discouraged my experiments because of her weight loss company. Shane rarely eats what I make, choosing instead to cook steamed broccoli with baked chicken—or those protein shakes. As I’m here though, I want to take every opportunity to learn to cook Spanish food. I scan the room.

  Faded green cabinets line the ceiling and floors. There’s an ancient, commercial grade range, several ovens, and all sorts of things hanging from the ceiling, from well-scrubbed copper pans to dried herbs to bunches of braided garlic, onions, and peppers. Open shelving takes up one wall, storing olive oil in a dark corner. A huge center wood block table appears to do double-duty, both as a place to prep meals and to eat. It could seat sixteen easily.

  I follow Tavo out the back door of the kitchen, down a stone-floored corridor with open double-hung windows that let in the breeze. We take a sharp left and head to a tile-floored newer wing of the house. We pass a living room, several closed doors, which must be bedrooms, and finally at the end of the hall, we stop at a dark red door. Tavo opens it, and my heart leaps.

  “This is yours.” He hovers in the doorway, as if he wants to come in, but he’s giving me privacy. I appreciate that. It’s courteous, and he’s putting my needs before his.

  I step inside.

  The small room has white walls with a cross over the bed, a twin bed, a little desk and chair, and a tall, dark wood wardrobe. Nothing else. No closet. It’s the definition of minimalistic.

  I immediately love it. There’s space for me to figure out what I want. Unlike my bedroom at home, this room is my clean slate, my new me, a launchpad for exploration. My mind starts constructing how I’m going to make it my own—at least for the months that I’m here.

  A leafy tree outside shades it from the heat of the day. I stride over to the window to take in the view of rolling rust-colored hills and soft olive trees spaced evenly throughout.

  He holds up my bags as a question, and I gesture for him to come in. Stepping in and setting down my bags by the bed, he pauses, watching me. Then he tilts his head and rubs his chin. “You like?” he asks with a hopeful tone.

  “I love!” My cheerful exclamation makes his shoulders drop in relief and a satisfied expression spread on his face.

  “This used to be my room. When I went to University, I moved out to the little house behind the barn. Do you want me to set up your Wi-Fi before I leave you to unpack?”

  I perk up. “Yes, please.”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets. “You have an adapter?”

  “Adapter?” I need to adapt to all kinds of things.

  “For your computadora?”

  “Oh, yes, I do.” I sit down at the desk, rummage in my backpack, pulling out laptop, books, and notebook, and hand the adapter to him.

  He plugs in my computer, asks me to log on, then I turn the laptop over to him. After typing in the Wi-Fi password, he says, “I’ll write it down too, just in case.”

  Leaning over me to open the desk drawer, I glimpse the smooth, tan, touchable side of his torso, a sliver of skin above his belt where his shirt pops up. Pulling out a sheet of paper and a pencil, Tavo writes down the password—aceitedeOliva—in curvy European writing, and turns to leave, then pauses in the doorway. “I shall leave you to get settled.” I nod. “Dinner a las diez.”

  “Wait. Dinner at ten?” My stomach rumbles.

  He grins. “We like to eat in the dark.” And he turns on his heel and disappears.

  I sit for a moment jittering my foot against the floor.

  I did it. I left Iowa. I’m here in Spain.

  “I’m in Spain!” I shriek aloud, then cover my mouth with my hand.

  Five

  Tavo - Guía de viajes

  I leave her room before I do something insane like kiss her.

  Or more.

  Images flash through my mind. Kim, gloriously naked on my bed, anticipating an evening of dirty, sexy activities.

  My pulse roars in my ears as I scuff my feet down the hall, my hands shoved in my jeans pockets to keep the bulge down. Taking myself away from her. Away from this magnetism. Away from my shady impulses.

  She has no idea. No idea who I am or where my thoughts go. No idea what I want.

  Would she want the same?

  I thumb my ear and peer back to her room. She closed the door when I left, so I’m not able to get a read on her.

  Would she be willing to explore?

  I pause in the middle of the hall and gaze out the window. A bird chirps in a cork oak outside.

  Yes. I think so. If I had to bet, I’d go with Kim being curious. Not just about Spain, but the depths of her soul. Those parts of her she doesn’t show to anyone. I don’t think she’s very experienced—I’m no Christian Grey myself—but she seems open like a park on a clear summer day, with the wind and the bright flowers and the freedom.

  She might be the heartbeat of my guitar, instead of the mill fettered to my olive orchard.

  I glance back again, her muffled voice coming through the door upbeat and lovely.

  Madre de Dios, I hope I’m not getting the wrong signals. The last thing I want to do is scare her on her first day in Spain. If she only knew I’d been thinking of her blindfolded on that bed, licking her lips and whimpering with need, her soft pink nipples hardening under my breath.

  My mind races, plotting ways that I can get her to be with me.

  Then I smile and remember—she is staying. I need to not give her a reason to leave.

  Ending up in the kitchen, I lean against the counter and stare. In my mind, she’s tied with s
ilk ribbons to my bed, spread wide while I explore every part of her body with my tongue, crying out in pure pleasure. I’ll make her come longer and more complete than she’s ever felt before.

  Slow. That’s just the thing to do. Go slow. And figure out how to spend as much time with her as I possibly can.

  “Gustavo?”

  Mierda.

  Mi madre calls from the parlor, and my heart nearly goes into cardiac arrest. The last thing I want is family around when I’m fighting feelings that make my zipper uncomfortable.

  Actually, the last thing I want is for them to know anything about my sexual tastes. Yet another reason why I want to leave this place. Even though I have as much privacy as I can get here in my own little casa, I think Guillermo has figured out too much, based on his passing comments throughout the years.

  My mother enters the ancient kitchen, and I catch her eye. Her warm, caring eyes. The ones I’d never say no to, and yet the ones I so desperately want to say no to. “Sí, Madre.”

  She runs her finger along my jaw. “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown up, mijo. You’re the man of the house now.”

  Shifting my weight from one leg to another, I take both her hands in mine and give her a half-smile. “I will always take care of you.”

  And I will. No matter what. Even if it makes my insides plummet to my shoes.

  Still, I’m grateful she doesn’t know what I’ve been thinking.

  “You’re going to take Kim to Granada? Show her around? Register her for classes?”

  “Yes. I’ll be her tour guide.”

  Hombre. That’ll be fun. More time with Kim. I can show her my Spain. Now, instead of filled with dirty images, my mind glimpses the places I’ll take her. La Alhambra, of course. La catedral. El Sacromonte. Anywhere in Spain, really. Anywhere she wants to go. And in every place, I see her holding my hand, kissing me, laughing in the sunshine.

  Dios. I’m getting ahead of myself. I table these fantasies, along with the one about taking her to my casita and tying her to my bed.

  Pretty sure that isn’t going to happen. Yet.