Chapter Five
London ran her finger down the screen of her phone, stopping at the sixth item on her agenda. She’d always loved cooking, and with each new place she visited, she’d yearned to learn to cook the foods of the people who lived there. Well, today, she’d get to. Thank you, Huntington Place.
They’d discussed which cooking class to take, London opting for the inexpensive choice, but Mateu had insisted on the one offered by the hotel. He’d said the chef was well known, and his mother would smack him if he let her learn from a subpar chef. He’d always wanted to take the class himself, so they’d do it together. His treat.
With one last glance of her room, she smothered a yawn and closed the door. She’d spent the better part of the night documenting the quality of the hotel’s room service. Her habit of carrying a mini inspection tool kit with her had paid off. If she could call checking out the bathroom on her hands and knees or pulling apart her bed to inspect every crease and seam for bedbugs with both a black light and a magnifying glass a payoff—such a glamorous life.
Adjusting the strap of her bag across her chest, she stepped up to the elevator just as it opened.
The object of her unsettling dreams appeared. Mateu lounged against one side of the elevator with the casual stance of a man comfortable in his own skin. “Good day, senyoreta. I trust you slept well?”
“Very well, thank you.” She stepped onto the elevator. “Just heading down?”
“I wanted to escort you so I came up. Did you dream of me?” He leaned against the wall once again with a devilish grin.
And when all she gave him in return was a raised brow, he straightened and laughed. “I love a woman who can hold her own. It makes the game so much more interesting.”
Oh, they were playing a game all right. He just didn’t realize he was losing. The elevator door opened, and she hid her grin as she walked through the lobby. If he only knew.
She had to admit his nearness left her head swimming a bit. Though any woman would feel that around a man as handsome as Mateu. It wasn’t an ideal condition when she had to stay on her toes, but then again, what better way to spend the next week and a half than in a blissful state of awareness while doing everything in Barcelona?
Stepping out to the curb, she waited as Mateu called for his car. “We’ll be shopping at the market to learn how to choose the best produce, then back to the hotel for the class.”
With a nod, she tried to be patient, but truth be told, she wanted to jump up and down and clap her hands. She’d get to learn how to cook an authentic meal right down to the perfectly paired wine. Mateu would direct the event as if she had her very own concierge, and Huntington would foot the not-so-inexpensive bill of over three hundred dollars for the two of them. He’d get to stay in the hotel, and she’d get to go out on the town. The cooking class would be her first win.
She grabbed his arm with a small squeal under her breath. The warmth of his skin through the fine fabric of his shirt took her by surprise, but not more than the heat of his hand that flew to her hip and flexed. She pulled back, sliding onto the fine leather of the town car. The skin where his fingers had been still tingled, but she determined the flush along her cheeks was from her excitement for the cooking class. “I’ve wanted to do something like this for a long time.”
With a nod, he settled in next to her. “We’re meeting the class there, but we’ll take the shuttle back with the food.”
“We could have taken the shuttle there with the class.”
“We could have. But this is my tour, and I want it to be one you don’t forget.”
She ignored his charm. He could try to throw her off her game, but she wasn’t biting. “Thank you.”
Clearing his throat, he said a few words in Spanish to the driver. Along the way, she made note of tourist places she planned to visit. Sagrada Familia was a must. Gaudi was an architectural genius, and he’d made significant contributions to the city. The grouping of sky-high towers of his masterpiece pointed to the heavens and were topped with what looked like pearls from a distance. So romantic she couldn’t help but smile. It would look like a fortress straight out of Lord of the Rings from the view in the cable car that floated over the city. That was another must.
“I’m surprised you’d want to accompany me,” she said. “I’d imagine you find Barcelona very common by now.”
Mateu shook his head with an intense look in his eyes. “There’s nothing common about this city. The greatest artists of all time built their lives in the beauty of this place.” He followed her gaze through the window. “It never loses its magic.”
She glanced at his face but found only sincerity there.
A short time later, they pulled to a stop. The jeweled archway of La Boqueria was on one side of the street and the Erotic Museum, hailing everyone to come in with loud posters boasting five foot 69s, was on the other. The Erotic Museum was on the agenda for later in the week, though maybe it wasn’t the best choice with Mateu as her guide. She’d just have to deal with him when the time came. Right now, she had an amazing meal to cook.
She took in every detail as she followed him toward the market. La Boqueria’s archway appeared to have been taken straight from the stained glass of the Vatican. The market was packed with tourists vying for memories and locals gathering ingredients to break bread. Crowds of people weaved in and out like multiple currents in a river swelling with the warmth of summer.
“Ahh, here we are.” Mateu directed her to a small group of people led by a short man with a thick head of hair and a thicker mustache. As they joined the crew of tourists, their teacher nodded. “Yes, yes. We start now.”
Señor Bustillo directed them through the fresh-produce section of La Boqueria speaking English in short, direct sentences that would make the old Dick and Jane stories proud. London didn’t even try to hide the joy with which the whole situation filled her. She walked through the market running her fingers over fruits and vegetables laid out in a rainbow of color, while the cutest little chef with a round belly taught her how to choose the perfect tomatoes for gazpacho. Her mother would love this. She pressed a hand to her chest.
Something warm met her back. “You are entertained by the smallest things.” Mateu’s softly spoken words near her ear sent a shiver down her spine.
She picked up a tomato as Señor Bustillo suggested. “He is adorable.”
Mateu chuckled softly. “He isn’t the only one.”
“Now, choose a bright, deep red tomato. No bruise, no blemish. Yes?” Bustillo spoke to the group.
She turned hers over in her hand, carefully inspecting for marks, cracks, or soft spots.
“You want a heavy tomato. Ripe and juicy makes for tomato with weight.” As the group inspected their finds, Señor Bustillo checked in with each. “Good. Good.”
“Give gentle squeeze. You want a tomato that responds to your fingers, like the perfect woman, yes?” He directed the last part at Mateu, making London want to roll her eyes. All men were the same.
Mateu wiggled his brows, and she chuckled softly. It wasn’t his searing good looks she needed to guard herself against, it was his playful side.
While Bustillo spoke, Mateu stayed close. She could feel the heat radiating from him, though he didn’t touch her. Choosing a plump tomato from the crate, he wrapped his large hand around it in a light grip. He gave a slight squeeze, and the atmosphere seemed to go from comfortable to sweltering as her imagination took off on a path all its own.
Holding it out to her, he asked, “What do you think?”
She blinked twice. “Perfect.” She snapped her eyes to him. “I mean…”
Mateu’s smile was slow and deliberate. She couldn’t help but fall for his teasing. It reminded her of how fun living could be when stress wasn’t a persistent, heavy blanket.
“Finally, test the tomato for a sweet, earthy odor. You want strong scent, not light.” Bustillo’s animated voice boomed over the din of the crowd.
Pulling herself together, London ignored the look in her sexy concierge’s eyes and dipped her nose toward his hand. She smelled the tomato close to the stem as directed. “Strong and sweet, just as Señor Bustillo suggests.”
“Strong and sweet. I’m glad you approve.”
She raised a brow. “We’re talking about your tomato.”
“My favorite topic.”
I’ll bet it is. She smirked and plopped her tomatoes into his arms, leaving small dirt marks scuffed on his shirt. Then she walked away as if nothing was amiss. They were choosing fresh seafood for paella next, and then whole milk for their Crema Catalana.
With their ingredients piled high in leftover produce boxes, the group followed closely behind the bustling Señor Bustillo to the shuttle waiting at the curb. London kept her smile serene as Mateu worked at the marks on his shirt as best he could.
The driver handled getting all the students and the food back to the hotel effortlessly, and she added a few notes into her phone to transfer to her documentation later that night.
Back at the Huntington, they gathered in an inviting open space toward the back of the hotel. The room boasted a restaurant-grade oven and stovetop, four prep tables, and a long dining table already set up with a black runner and lime green linens.
London gasped as she led Mateu to a prep table, assisting him with the packages. “Oh, wow. This is really spectacular.”
Pride shone in his eyes, but he cleared his throat. “I’ve heard great things about this program, but I must admit, I am impressed as well.” He placed the tomatoes together on the table and threw her a wink.
She turned away, grabbing the bottle of whole milk and setting it aside, followed by shrimp and various vegetables.
Bustillo spoke of Spanish foods and customs as he split the class into smaller groups of four. Mateu and London were joined by an older couple from Britain who returned to Barcelona each year for their anniversary. The older man shuffled up to the table, and London stepped closer to Mateu to make room.
Mateu’s arm snaked around her waist, and she tried not to fidget from the sensation spiraling across her skin. He had such a small bubble. She wasn’t sure if it was a cultural thing or part of his made-up persona to seduce her. She rarely tolerated it from people she’d known for years, but with him she found it more distracting than distasteful. Like she wanted to turn into his arms instead of taking a cooking class, but that was ridiculous. If Susan were here, she’d be the first to slap London upside her noggin and tell her to get her head out of her pants.
“How long have you two been together?” the lady asked.
London worked on peeling the shrimp and running the point of a blade along the vein to remove it. She shook her head with a chuckle. “No, we just met.”
“New, fast friends,” Mateu added with a squeeze, and London stepped away.
The older woman set her hand on her husband’s shoulder and beamed at the two of them. “I can tell it will be a friendship that lasts. Don’t waste any time.”
Mateu grinned. “I like how you think. How long have you been married?”
London sneaked a quick peek at him, surprised he’d asked, but he had eyes only for them and listened with genuine interest. Which was unexpected.
“This is our forty-fifth anniversary, and I’ll be eighty next month. We met a little later in life, and though we found our forever, we felt a bit cheated by time. We love honeymooning at Huntington Place Barcelona. No better hotel in the world.”
London noted the way Mateu simply nodded, when he was probably popping the virtual cork of a champagne bottle in his mind.
“Happy anniversary,” she said.
As they sliced vegetables and measured rice, Mateu asked the couple if they had any children and what they did for a living. London enjoyed the way he leaned close, giving them all his attention. He didn’t absently answer, he listened then asked for more.
What surprised her the most was his ability to keep track of her while she seasoned the paella pan. A small caress along her arm, a light touch at the base of her back as he maneuvered to reach the olive oil. He was attentive and sure with no underlying feel of a staged flirtation, but rather simple enjoyment of the moment. Every now and then he’d stop to capture a photo on his cell. She couldn’t quite figure out how his ability to remain present made her feel. So she shook it away and counted out the clams and mussels for their dish.
As the couple took over making the gazpacho, London set the seasoned paella pan on the stove. “You’re a very good listener.”
Mateu glanced at her from the corner of his eye as he set up the clams to soak. “I’m interested. I love to see couples who have found the joy of living together. I find it beautiful. My parents have a relationship that I rarely see in others, but these two seem to have it. It always makes me wonder how they did it.”
“Do you see yourself having that one day?” She tried to keep the cynical drip from her voice.
A brief look of disappointment washed over his face then disappeared. “Women seem to like the idea of being married to me rather than the reality. My ex-fiancée loved the idea until I was finished putting her through university, then she lost her taste for me.”
“What an awful thing to do. I’m not a believer in happy ever after, but that is just unforgivable,” London said more forcefully than she’d intended, but who the hell used people that way? Present company not included. Her game wasn’t about making him pay so much as the hotel. But she still frowned. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like the sound of you angry on my behalf. But, what, you don’t believe there are good marriages? I always thought American women dreamed of the white picket fence with two children and a pet.”
Apparently, she hadn’t hidden her disbelief well. “What year do you live in, 1975?” She laughed. “I didn’t see it growing up. My experience is that people work at relationships until the novelty wears off. It usually happens to one before the other, so the other always gets badly hurt. No, thank you.”
Señor Bustillo stepped up to the table. “Very good. Now slice the onion and the red pepper. In few minutes, you scrub your clam and mussels, yes?”
London sliced the onion, breathing through her mouth instead of her nose in hopes to keep her tears at bay.
Mateu found a wire brush and went to work on the mussels. He jerked his chin in the direction of the older couple. “My parents are a lot like these two. They work together and take joy in each moment. It’s honorable.”
She looked at him closely, finding it ironic that he could so easily speak of honor. “How long have your parents been married?”
“My whole life.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and it wasn’t just his mouth that smiled, but his whole face. “Almost forty years. When they got married, most of their friends had children right away, but they gave themselves time to work on their marriage and the family citrus orchard before having my brother, sister, and me. My mom is a sweetheart, and my father is feisty. Both very proud Catalans, which, in the end, may hurt them more than help them. It is paramount that I am here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
She heard the slight worry in his voice but couldn’t imagine where it came from. He was pretending to work at the orchard—and just might be playing on her emotions with the idea of his parents needing help.
She had to hand it to him. He was good. “I have a hard time imagining you with siblings.”
He piled the mussels in a bowl, then pulled the clams from the water one by one. He wiped his hand on a towel, then placed it across his chest with a smirk. “As hard as it is to believe someone as sexy as myself is a big brother…it’s the truth.”
She rolled her eyes. “Someone has a healthy ego.” But she couldn’t deny it, either. It was difficult to rectify the wealthy game player she knew him to be with the big brother and family man he was showing her.
Then he smiled, and the memory of the reason why he was even at this cooking class with her acted like a cold glass of water thrown at her face. He’d already proven to be a master manipulator. Once again, she was being taken hook, line, and sinker.
She squared her shoulders.
Well, she might have slipped, but she hadn’t fallen.
Game on.