Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Shit, am I going to have to tell her my last name already? No. I can give her Mom's. She goes by that, usually. "Call her Mrs. Galante."
"Your name is Romeo Chivalry?" she asks.
"Not exactly," I say. "Dad is from Mexico. It's complicated."
"So, it's Romeo, Middle Name Chivalry, Dad's Last Name."
That's about it. I nod.
"Still." She laughs. "That's a lot."
"She's a lot." I grab a pair of boxers. Decide against the rest of my clothes. I'll be more persuasive in this state.
I hang near the door while Ivy speaks to my mother.
Not that Ivy speaks much.
It's mostly my mom going on, half in Italian, while Ivy says, yes, of course, Romeo is a great guy. (She’s loud enough I can hear, even without the phone on speaker).
I give her a little space, get ready in the bathroom—I still pack a disposable toothbrush—search for coffee in the kitchen. It's small, like most California kitchens, but it's warmer than the rest of the house. Filled with herbs, spices, teas.
One bottle of gin. One bottle of tonic. One bag of limes.
She knows what she likes.
Mom would like that. Like her.
The instant coffee, not so much, but a craftsman never blames his tools. Even instant coffee can make something good, if you know what to do with it. I brew it extra strong. Look for milk or sugar, something to take off the edge of bitter and sour sure to come through with cheap beans.
Regular milk. Full fat. Mom will love that.
Good cheese.
Tomatoes. Eggs. Fresh fruit and vegetables. A well-stocked kitchen for one. Another point for Ivy. She takes care of herself, knows how to cook, uses fresh food.
There isn't a single prepared sauce in her kitchen, actually. Only a salsa. And dad, well, he never was the chef in the family. He never was picky. He bought all his salsa at Trader Joes, because it was cheap, because it was good enough. But he certainly wasn't Mr. Authenticity. He put pineapple salsa on everything.
I miss him.
I do.
I just wish I didn't have another Flores man to fail to stack up to.
Ivy finishes the call with my mother and moves into the living room. "That was different."
"Sorry. My mom is a lot."
"She sounds sweet."
"She is." I take a sip to test the black coffee. Over brewed. I can taste it. I need to balance with milk. "Do you have to get to work?"
"I have some time." She looks at the jar of instant coffee. "Is it that bad?"
"Does it show on my face?" I ask.
She nods. "I guess I'll take it as a sign you weren't faking anything last night."
A laugh spills from my lips. She's funny. I like that in a woman. That's what I liked about Sasha, right away, but we never had that chemistry.
"I thought about getting a coffee set up for my best friend, but I sort of like rebelling against coffee's cultural dominance. It already has the country. It doesn't get my house too."
She's cute. She really is. "It's a nice place."
"Do you, uh, need something or—?"
"Can I get dressed and get the fuck out of your house?"
"I'm enjoying the view, don't get me wrong. But I do have things to do."
I like her. Actually like her. It’s not smart. She’s a client, not a real date, but at the moment I don’t care. I need to bring someone to the wedding and she’s perfect. "I want to ask you a favor."
"Another?" she asks.
"A continuation."
She moves to the kitchen, sits at the little round table, sips her cup of amber tea.
"You know how you played my girlfriend this morning?"
"Sure."
"How would you like to do that at my brother's wedding?"
Chapter Eight
Ivy
Playing Romeo's girlfriend, at his brother's wedding?
Um, what?
Only I could hire an escort and somehow find myself with a commitment.
"I'll reimburse you, of course," he says. "Financially, if you'd like. Or—" His eyes flit to the bedroom. They fill with intent. An intent I really, really want to answer.
Having this conversation in his boxers is smart.
The man looks good in the sleek black underwear. Very Italian, actually. Italian-Mexican, I guess. That explains the darker, browner tones in his complexion.
He is handsome. Sexy. Last night was fun. I didn't entirely believe it, and I didn’t quite feel comfortable enough to tell him everything I wanted, but it was fun.
It's a podcast episode, for sure.
And I certainly need another.
Even if it’s emotionally awkward. Even if that part of it isn’t there. I don’t need it there. I need to do what’s best for the show. I need to keep it going. Or I’ll lose the ability to work with my best friend. I’ll lose the only place I’ve ever had to speak my mind. And I’ll even have to move back in with my parents while I rebuild my business. A terrible fate.