Page 30 of Harper's Holiday Romance
“Harper, your turn,” she challenged. “It’s the good stuff.”
I honestly couldn’t care if it was liquified gold mixed with some secret potion that made the recipient live forever; it still tasted foul. She sensed my hesitancy. The rest of the group were quick to follow in Julia’s footsteps. There was a glimmer of something in her eye. Was it satisfaction? She was goading me. She knew, someway, somehow, I didn’t want the shot.
“You like tequila, right?” She gripped the small shot glass with her fingertips and placed it gently in mine.
“Uh-huh,” I responded.
I could be dramatic. I was the first to admit it, but the smell of tequila straight was offensive to my senses. The sharp pungent aroma made my body shiver. Julia leant back against the bar with a smug look on her face. Bob waited patiently for me to partake in the pre-drink. It would’ve been rude not to. I closed my eyes. I snapped my elbow forwards so sharply that the shot hit the back of my mouth and sailed down my throat so fast I didn’t have time to dwell on the spicy notes. I kept a straight face. I was cool, calm, and collected on the outside whilst my insides were making me aware I would regret it later.
“Nicely done, Fox.” Julia looked me up and down, as though she was following the path of the liquid through my body, urging it to break through the facade I was so desperately trying to portray.
The waiter arrived just in time to allow me a second’s respite.
“You hate tequila,” Billie whispered as we made our way to the table.
“Yep.”
She didn’t say anything more; she didn’t need to.
I was at the back of the pack which left me with no choice but to take the only remaining seat—directly across from Julia.
Yay.
Upon showing us to our seats, the waiter promised the chef would seduce our tastebuds, his choice of words not mine. I was all for it. Mexican food wasn’t my favourite cuisine, unless I made it myself, because then I could limit the spice. Extra, extra, extra mild with a bowlfull of sour cream and my tastebuds could just about handle it. It was pathetic. I was aware.
The dress code for dinner was described as casual elegance with a brief description on the hotel amenities tablet. No flip-flops or beachwear. No sleeveless shirts. I needed more information, so I called the concierge with a raft of questions.
Does flip-flops mean all flip-flops, or are they specifically targeting the synthetic foam type?
It specified long pants indoors and smart shorts outdoors, but I did not have the ability to foresee the popularity of the restaurant, and whether we would be seated within a specific restricted area or not. How could I plan my outfit with that limited information?
The concierge clarified the trousers/shorts element was aimed at men more than women. Women could wear more or less anything other than a bikini.
Which led to my next question: What if you’re female, but gay, and your clothing preference is “male” clothing?
Rosalina was stumped to start but recovered well assuring me that the restaurant did not discriminate, and anyone was free to wear what they felt most comfortable in. The guidelines were only in place to stop the very small minority of guests who had previously decided to go out for a five-star meal with beach hair and a creased sarong covering their modesty.
Fair enough. I had more clarity after that.
The restaurant was just as beautiful as the Italian. Like much of the hotel, there was a wooden element to the chosen accessories, but the walls were a lighter cloudy beige with warm bronze tones across the fixtures and fittings to tie it all together. The menu consisted offive starters, five mains, and five desserts. It wasn’t extensive by any means, but the food looked delicious.
“A Caesar salad?” It was first up on the list of starters.
“What about it?” Sarah asked.
“Well, it’s not Mexican, is it?” It had to be the least Mexican dish in my opinion. I would’ve been more inclined to say that chow mein was Mexican.
Sarah shrugged. Billie would know, but she was on the opposite side of Sarah making conversation with Jill like they’d known each other for years.
“It originated in Mexico,” Julia said. She didn’t look up from her menu.
“No way!” I challenged. It sounded so Italian.
“Really?” Sarah asked, even though her tone lacked enthusiasm.
“By an Italian man named Caesar Cardini in the 1920s,” Julia stated. She was so calm, so cool, and such a know it all, which made sense. I eyed her suspiciously.
“It’s my favourite salad.” She shrugged.
