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)
My parents aren’t technically divorced—devout Catholics don’t divorce—but I’m glad they live separately. My parents were forced into marriage young and stuck it out for twenty years despite hating each other. Once the going got tough for my father and his company, it made sense for them to part ways permanently. Now, my mother lives among her friends in Barcelona, a veritable nun for all intents and purposes, and my father lives in Paris. They rarely call me to check in, and I’m fine with the arrangement. Work is my family, my first and only love.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m calling you out of the blue,” Caterina says. “I won’t keep taking up your time. I know you’re a busy man. This concerns my sweet Isabel.”
Isabel? I’m ashamed I don’t remember the name. Caterina’s daughter? I know she has a son who lives in America.
She continues before I can ask, “My granddaughter has decided to spend her summer on Ibiza.”
“You don’t say…”
I roll my eyes, glad she can’t see it. I already know where this conversation is headed. Spanish grandmothers are nothing if not overly protective.
“Mi niña is young.”
“How young?” I press. Surely the De Vere family isn’t allowing their teenage daughter to run loose on this island.
“Twenty-six.”
I stifle a chuckle as she goes on, oblivious to my restrained annoyance. “She’s a sheltered girl, you understand. Naive.”
“Young, naive girls come to Ibiza all the time, and they survive their trip just fine,” I point out drily. She doesn’t respond, and my guilt forces me to throw her a bone. “What would you like me to do?”
“Watch out for her.”
“How am I supposed to find this girl? The island isn’t that small.”
“She told me she was going to apply to work at Aura.”
I nearly laugh.
“My club?” That’s not happening. “We hired the last of our summer staff back in April. We turned down over two hundred applicants.”
Every year, twenty-somethings from all over the world flock to Ibiza with the hope of working and partying their summers away in paradise, and most of them have their sights set on Aura. We take care of our employees. We provide housing and competitive pay, but all that pales in comparison to the privilege of wearing one of our uniforms.
“I have nothing for her, not even at my new restaurant. We completed the hiring process there last week.”
“What do you mean you have nothing for her?” Her haughty tone reminds me of my late grandmother. “Never mind. She’ll find work elsewhere. She’s beautiful—someone will hire her.”
I don’t want to give into her, but still, in memory of my abuela, I can’t completely turn down her request. Even if finding a random girl on Ibiza is like searching for a needle in a haystack, I still feel like I owe her some shred of hope.
“Isabel, you said?”
“Isabel De Vere, yes.”
I commit the name to memory. “Right. Okay. I’ll look for her.”
“I knew you would,” she replies, and I can detect the slightest bit of smugness in her voice.
Chapter Four
Isabel
I know I’m not making the best first impression. Ideally I wouldn’t be marching up to Aura with a heavy duffel bag weighing me down, but I have nowhere to leave my stuff, so I push my shoulders back and smile.
Even in daytime, a bouncer is positioned in front of the club with an earpiece and a clipboard. From a distance, I watch employees arrive to work and realize this isn’t just a simple wave-as-you-walk-in situation. The bouncer takes every single ID and cross-references it with a list on his clipboard before the employees are allowed to enter.
I get in line behind two guys who peer back at me with curious glances but otherwise don’t attempt conversation. It’s probably the duffel bag. I’m wincing under its weight; I have Winnie’s entire summer wardrobe crammed in this thing. The guys are allowed past the bouncer, and then it’s my turn to step up and offer a little wave and chuckle.
“Hola.”
I came prepared. Just before I left the café, I looked up the Spanish phrase for Can I apply for a job? and have been repeating it in my head on my walk over. Only now, sadly, the words are a jumbled mess.
“ID card,” he says sternly. His accent is Scandinavian, I suspect. I’m relieved I don’t have to force my Spanish.
“Right.” I was expecting this. “I don’t have one of those yet, but—”
He sighs and leans past me so he can beckon for the girl behind me in line. “ID card.”
She steps around me and presents her ID, shooting me an apologetic smile when she’s certain he isn’t looking. He checks her card and waves her forward, all while I stand dumbly looking on. Once the line’s gone, he pulls out his phone, ignoring me.
I inch a half-step closer and adjust the strap of my heavy bag on my shoulder. “I was hoping maybe I could apply for a job.”