Page 16 of Personal Foul

“Yes, please.” He pours two glasses and sets one in front of me and one in front of his plate.

“So what do we have?”

“Seafood paella, with shrimp, mussels, and chorizo. Then I made an instapot flan.” He cringes. “If you ever meet my mother’s side and tell them I made you flan in an instapot, I will deny it until I’m blue in the face.”

I giggle. “No mention of instapot, got it.”

I hold my glass out to him. “Cheers.”

He taps his to mine. “Cheers. Dig in, I hope you love it.”

I put some paella on my plate, making sure I get a little bit of everything and take a bite. The burst of flavor surprising me, making me moan. I open my eyes and see Garrett staring at me, fork halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Mi reina, if you want this evening to be PG, you can’t make noises like that,” he warns.

I can feel my cheeks heating. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, I’m not.”

“This is delicious. Who taught you how to make it?”

“I can’t really say it was one specific person. All the women in my family took the time to make sure I could hold my own in the kitchen. That way they wouldn’t worry about me starving to death and being an ocean away.” He shrugs.

“That’s sweet,” I say softly.

“I’ll tell them you said so.” He smirks.

“So, I take it this place was already furnished before you moved in?”

“A little obvious, huh?”

“Just a little,” I tease, taking another bite.

Garrett takes a sip of his water next to his sangria. “When I left New England, I needed a fresh start, so I only brought what I needed and got rid of the rest.”

“I get that.” I nod. “Sometimes we all need a fresh start.”

Sometime during our conversation, we both clean our plates.

“Would you like anymore?”

“No, thank you. It was seriously delicious though. You didn’t have to go through all the trouble.”

“Yes I did,reina,” he says with a heated look. “How about you refill your glass of sangria and go sit on the couch while I get this cleaned up?”

“I’ll take your glass for you.”

“Sounds good.” We both stand and head our separate ways. I set our glasses down on the coffee table and look around. I spot a canvas print of turquoise water and sandy beach.

“That’s Peñíscola, Spain.” He says, walking out of the kitchen.

“That’s where your mother’s from, right?”

“It is. That’s what home looks like.”

I look back at the photo. “It’s breathtaking,” I whisper.

“I’ll have to take you sometime.”

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