Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I’m trying to conquer the world here, not bore myself to death over a dinner date.
And besides, I can appreciate things. My boat is beautiful. That new Jet Ski Juan Carlos is careening around on is top of the line. The water is crystal clear and… maldición. I wish I had my work phone. The fires are likely piling up, and I’m going to have to put them out eventually. I could have brought my laptop and chipped away at my emails for an hour or two, and then maybe this tightness in my chest would have eased.
Or who knows, maybe I’m completely off the mark. Maybe at the ripe age of thirty-four, I’m having a heart attack. I should call for the captain. He’s not a doctor, but he’s had basic medical training, right? Maybe he could check my blood pressure. No doubt it’s through the roof.
“Enjoying the view?” Juan Carlos calls out, whipping his (my) Jet Ski around on the water, taunting me.
He can’t resist poking me further when I don’t give him a reaction. “You’re too tightly wound. You need to relax!”
How can I? I’ve been working my ass off for the last few years creating Colectiva Isla Blanca, and it’s not easy running the largest hospitality group on Ibiza. Owning and operating a dozen restaurants and nightclubs comes with a very specific set of challenges. Each venture requires careful attention to detail. The new spots have to be babied, the old ones are in constant need of tending—it’s a never-ending merry-go-round. Just when I think I have all the pieces in place, the house of cards neatly stacked, a new idea sparks until I have no choice but to see it through to fruition. There’s never time to sit back on my throne and enjoy the empire I’ve built.
I shoot my cousin a crude gesture with my hand before my phone starts ringing on the lounge chair behind me and I rush to answer it. Gracias a Dios. Maybe a work contact found my personal number. I’m saved.
“You see?” Juan Carlos cackles at my predictability.
“Cristiano,” I say with a clipped tone, already champing at the bit over the problem looming before me. Maybe the chef walked out at Mar Blava before the big lunch rush; maybe there’s a huge supply-chain issue with our alcohol distributor at Aura. Whatever it is, it’ll refocus my attention where it belongs: on work. No more wondering about ambiguous feelings.
“I can’t believe I reached you!” A woman laughs with delight on the other end of the phone. “I’ve been trying all day. You are a hard man to track down.”
I frown at the semi-familiar voice, unable to place it. “Who’s this?”
“Caterina De Vere. You might not—”
“My grandmother’s friend?” I ask abruptly.
I can hear the smile in her voice when she replies. “Yes. Dolores’s old friend. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
A pang sears near my heart at the memory of my grandmother. “Of course. How are you?” I ask, testing the waters. I have no idea why Caterina De Vere is calling me. I haven’t seen her since my grandmother’s funeral in Barcelona, and that was over five years ago. The memory of Caterina in her mourning black, laying her hand on her late friend’s casket, is something I’ll never forget. We all took my grandmother’s death hard—me more than anyone—but Caterina and Dolores were as close as two people can be. My grandfather used to joke that while he was my grandmother’s husband, Caterina was her true soulmate.
“Estoy bien.” She says, “Missing Dolores, of course. I think about her every day.”
“So do I.”
My grandmother and I were extremely close. She was a second mom to me and, in most ways, the only one who mattered.
“And you?” Caterina asks, her tone lightening. “From what I hear, you have Ibiza in the palm of your hand. I can’t imagine what your abuela would say.”
“She’d love it,” I tell her, clearing my throat of the emotion tightening it. “She’d be at my clubs every night, giving all the young women a run for their money.”
Caterina cackles with delight, then offers up her hearty agreement.
Mauricio and Juan Carlos wave impatiently for me to join them down on the water. I hold up my finger and turn away from the railing so I can walk closer to the bridge. There, I can pick up better reception. If Caterina is calling me out of the blue like this, it’s likely for good reason; I don’t want this call to drop.
“And your dad? How is he?” she asks.
I scratch my scruff. “Living in Paris. I’m not sure what he’s doing for work at the moment. I think he has a young girlfriend, though, last I heard.”
She tsks with disapproval. “¡Madre mía! Your poor mother.”
“She’s fine,” I promise with a hint of a smile. “Happier without him, believe me.”