Page 39 of The Last Sunrise

I laugh a little. “It’s a website, well, an app that you can buy handmade stuff on. Something like this would probably sell for at least a hundred bucks, likely more.”

His eyes widen. “I’m in the wrong business, then.” He smirks, handing me my bathing suit bottoms, standing to adjust my top. There’s a darkness in his gaze as he says, “I don’t want anyone to see your beautiful, exposed body. Only me.”

I swallow, liking the surprisingly territorial way he’s claiming me more than I will ever admit. “Hmph, so no nude beaches for me?” I quirk up a defiant brow.

“Nope. You should have taken that first opportunity you had.”

“And you—” I glare at him, feigning seriousness. “No nude beaches for you either, then. Fair is fair.”

“As you wish, my lady.” He kisses me, tosses me over his shoulder like a sack of air, and carries me back to the deck of the boat.

Chapter Fourteen

Okay, so what do we have? And how do I eat it?” I gaze over the colorful platter he’s crafted.

“Mackerel.” He points to a row of white fish with a gray rim. “Sea bream, two types. Sea bream is my favorite, this one specifically.” His finger moves above another white fish with a pinkish edge. “And lastly, this is an anchovy. Americans seem to have some bias against them, but keep an open mind.” He opens a plastic cooler and takes out a loaf of bread. “With bread and butter.”

In another small tub is a red paste with different-colored flakes mixed in. I can smell garlic and tomato.

“Wow, you’re so prepared. What if I wouldn’t have gotten off the yacht?” I ask him, playfully but curiously.

He rips off a piece of bread, rubs butter and the tomato paste across it, and adds a thin gray anchovy before topping it with large flakes of sea salt.

“You would have. I was certain. But I live here, so I have food. Always.”

I look around the boat. “You live here, like on the boat? Or…” Confusion draws my brows together.

I guess I should have wondered why there was a mattress on the boat. Jealousy pricks at my skin at the thought of howmany women he’s slept with on this boat. I almost ask, but he stops me by nodding, and says, “Yeah. My dad has a piso, a flat type, that was his childhood home, but it still smells like my mare, and I can’t stand being inside for long. So I’ve been living on my boat since I was… sixteen?”

I wish I would have paid more attention to the room we were in. If I had known it was his living space, I would have memorized every inch of it.

I hesitate before asking, “Can I ask about your mother?”

He nods. “If you eat. Try this and be honest if you don’t like it.” He opens his mouth, gesturing for me to do the same.

I’m nervous to try something new, but that’s why I’m here, and it smells so, so good. I open my mouth and say “ahh” and take a bite as he feeds me. The taste is so much different from what I expected; flavor bursts in my mouth, coating my taste buds. As someone who uses their senses more than the average person, this dish tastes like it was made for me. The smell of garlic and tomato; the salty, earthy flavor of the fish; the buttery crunch of the bread. I chew, nodding in approval.

“Oh my god!” I roll my head back and Julián claps in relief. “It’s so good.” I talk with my mouth full, not caring about manners.

“So, so good.” I snatch the other half of the piece out of his hand and eat it.

The expression on his face should be painted or photographed. It’s wonderful and beautiful and proud, like he’s letting me in on the secret that food is something very, very dear to him. What a gift for him to share it with me.

“You’re always snatching food from me,” he teases, light and pure satisfaction beaming from his stunning eyes.

“Now have this one. It’s softer than it looks, and you just eat it.” He sprinkles the flaky salt on and folds the slice of fish, bringing it to my mouth.

I close my eyes, not knowing what to expect. Again, I’m floored. It’s not as full of flavor as the anchovy and bread, but it’s so light, so fresh and airy. I open my eyes and nod again.

“More?” he asks.

“Please.” I scoot closer to him.

The sun is still high in the sky, but it’s lowered since I got onto his boat. I haven’t checked my phone, and if it wasn’t for my mother, I wouldn’t even think about it.

“I can’t remember the last time someone made me a homecooked meal,” I say both to Julián and myself.

“Don’t you have private chefs at your beck and call?” he says, no judgment, just stating what he assumes.

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