CHAPTER 5

Before I can make my move on the snazzily-dressed hottie who’s even more lickable up-close (nicely coiffed gold hair, chiseled jawline, cleft in his chin, large hands with well-groomed nails, and no wedding band on the all-important ring finger), a fair-haired cherub bounces up to him and says, “Daddy, can I get these matching sunglasses for me and Kit?” She and her lookalike doll are already wearing the powder blue frames with stars on the sides. “I think she needs a dog, too.” The child holds up a stuffed basset hound.

“Uh huh. Whatever you want, honey,” he mumbles his reply, not bothering to look up from his phone, where he’s typing texts at a rapid-fire pace.

Okay, so he must be a divorced dad who’s too busy with work to pay his daughter any real attention, so he assuages his guilt by buying her everything she asks for. I can work with that!

“I want a dog!” Gabi exclaims, her eyes dancing with excitement at the thought of finally getting the canine she’s always craved, even if it’s just a toy.

“Elige uno que te guste, mi niña.”

Gorgeous blond guy’s head pops up, his focus suddenly diverted from his phone to my face just like I knew it would be. For most men, hearing me speak Spanish is the equivalent of ringing Pavlov’s bell. Their hormones get activated because they think Latinas are all hot-blooded, thrillingly unpredictable sexpots. In my case, that assumption is correct.

“Hello.” I gift him with my most dazzling smile.

“Hi there.” His phone is dinging with incoming texts, but he ignores them and stuffs the device into one of the pockets inside his jacket.

“Your daughter’s adorable.” Complimenting the man’s child is a subtle way of stroking his ego. She is a product of his excellent gene pool, after all.

“So’s yours.” He doesn’t even glance over at Gabi, who’s perusing the stuffed animal section, when he says it.

“Oh, she’s not mine. I’m just the doting aunt. Looks like your little one is going to be taking home quite a haul.” I indicate the pile of American Girl products his daughter is amassing on the floor. Clearly, she took her dad literally when he said she could have whatever she wanted. I would have done the same.

He chuckles, and I admire his perfectly straight, ultra-white teeth, which are probably veneers. “I owe her since I was in London on business last week and missed her birthday.”

Nice of him to introduce the topic of work.

“International travel is a nice job perk. What is it you do?” And while you’re at it, could you also tell me what your net worth is?

“I’m an executive director in Mergers & Acquisitions at Millicom.”

I know the name; it’s a big telecom/media company. And he’s an exec there? Be still my beating heart. Also, ka-ching, ka-ching.

“And you?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“I’m a model—print ads, runway, I’ve even done some commercials.”

“Wait a minute . . .” He squints his warm, chocolate-colored eyes at me. “Were you in that cell phone commercial a couple years ago, the one where the guy drops his device overboard and the sexy mermaid rescues it?”

“Yep, that was me. Of course, I have legs instead of a scale-covered tail in real life.” With a self-deprecating (and hopefully charming) smirk, I gesture at my long, shapely sticks in order to draw his eyes down to what I’ve often been told are my best asset. (After my awesome rack, of course, but this dress I’m wearing doesn’t really show off the girls.)

His gaze roams the length of my body from head to toe, and I can tell by his slack-jawed expression that he’s enjoying what’s he’s seeing, so mission accomplished.

“Wow,” he mumurs the word when his eyes meet mine again. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you’re even more of a knockout in person than you are on TV.”

“I should hope so since you’re getting the full 3-D version of me now,” I retort, with a flirtatious lilt to my voice. “The name’s Izzy, by the way.” I extend my hand.

“Izzy,” he repeats my name, letting it roll over his tongue like a flavorful sip of wine. “I’m Travis,” he tells me while enclosing my hand in his, “and I would love to take you out for a drink. Tuesday night, if you’re free.”

Oh, I’m free all right—free of job prospects, free of financial stability, free of admirers who are interested in more than just a good time. Travis really couldn’t have come along at a more auspicious moment; I’m thinking he might just be the answer to all my problems.

Our hands still joined, I take a step closer to my potential savior. “If that drink comes with some salsa dancing, then you’ve got yourself a date.” And maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll be doing some merging with me later that night, and I’ll be acquiring a very handsome meal ticket.

He looks sheepish. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to salsa dance.”

“It’s all in the hips.” I extricate my hand from his and place it on his hip, then do the same with my hand on the other side and slide forward, bringing our pelvises as close as I can without them actually making contact. (Have to be mindful of the kiddies!) “I’m sure you’d be a natural.”

A smile curves the corners of his mouth and he opens it to speak, but he’s beat to the punch by a female voice screeching, “What the hell, Travis? I leave you alone with Alexis for five minutes and you don’t even notice she’s destroying the store because you’re too busy getting groped by some piece of trash nanny!”

Travis backs away from me, his face flaming red with embarrassment. That’s when I see that Alexis has been ripping apart the packaging to get to her chosen accessories, and one of them is some kind of art kit that includes glitter, which seems to have exploded all over every nearby doll and surface, as well as a set of crayons, which the little brat is drawing on the wall with. (It should be noted that the child in my charge is sitting quietly at a small table in the corner playing with a stuffed Pomeranian pup.)

First things first. “I am not a nanny,” I tell the seething woman, “and it’s very racist of you to assume that just because I’m a Latina. Furthermore, your man had no objection to my proximity until you showed up. I suppose I should thank you for that since he neglected to mention that he has a wife when he asked me out for a drink, which was very naughty.” I toss him a reproving look. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my niece and I have a doll to buy.” I hold out my hand to Gabi who jumps up from the table and runs over to me.

“And a dog!” she declares happily as she grabs my hand.

We turn to leave, but I can’t resist glancing back over my shoulder at the spouses who are in the middle of a glare-off and saying, “If you’d like to give marriage counseling a try and I suggest you do, I know a great therapist in South Beach. Her name’s Pilar Fordham. Give her a call and be sure to tell her I sent you. ¡Hasta luego!” I give them a little finger wave just to be obnoxious and flounce off, smiling.

* * *

“Say, ‘Queso!’” I instruct Gabi, then lean back and press my cheek against Ashlyn’s so that her head is sandwiched between mine and my niece’s. I lift my chin so that my neck doesn’t disappear and click the camera icon on my phone’s display screen.

“Ooooo, that’s a good one!” I exult after seeing the results. “I need to send this to my ‘grammers and tweeps.” I quickly type a caption. ‘Having lunch with my fave niece and our new friend, Ashlyn. How cute are these itty bitty burgers and pigs-in-a-blanket?’ #girlsdayout #auntielife #goodtimes #toomuchpink

I’m not kidding about the proliferation of pink in this bistro. It’s everywhere—the walls, the booths, the chairs, the tablecloths, the menus, the glasses, there were even these weird, ball-shaped trees made out of pink sunflowers growing out of white planters in the entryway. We get it, American Girl; children of the female variety really dig the color pink!

At least Gabi seems to be getting a kick out of the place. Her face has been lit up like one of Mamá’s Christmas trees (which are always loaded down with so many flashing, multi-colored lights that they look like they belong on the Vegas Strip) since we got here, and she’s been chattering happily non-stop, doing a running commentary on everything from the great variety of drink selections the bistro has to offer (she elected to get a strawberry-flavored fruity fizz because it was pink) and how she thinks the pink apron-wearing servers here have the best job in the whole wide world and that’s what she wants to be when she grows up (I’m guessing her parents will strongly object to that life plan). I’ve just been smiling and nodding and wondering when she’s going to run out of steam. Aren’t kids her age supposed to take a nap? I really should have taken a closer look at that schedule of Pilar’s.

Speaking of my sister, my phone alerts me that I have an incoming FaceTime call from her. I accept the call, then shrink back in horror as soon as her image pops up on the screen.

“Aren’t you a sight?” I say once I’ve gotten over the shock.

“Ford arranged for me to have a beauty day at his mother’s salon so that I’ll feel pampered and pretty at the rehearsal dinner tonight.”

“Uh, yeah, I think you’re going to need the rest of the afternoon to recover from what you’ve got going on there.” For real. She’s got slimy green goop all over her face and fifty million foils in her hair that are making the long strands stick out at different angles from her head like she’s been in a hurricane-force wind.

Pilar frowns at me, which triggers some sort of goop avalanche. I watch in fascination as the green stuff oozes down her forehead and cheeks while she speaks. “I didn’t call for your opinion on my beauty treatments.” She wipes at her chin to try and stanch the flow of the facial mask. “If it’s not too much trouble, could I get some tissue over here?” she shouts to someone off-camera. “I called to find out what you’ve done with Gabi. The school left me a message, wondering why she wasn’t there today.”

Narcs!

“Gabi decided to take the day off from school. She wasn’t feeling it.”

My sister immediately goes into full panic mode. “Is she sick? Does she have a fever? Did you call the pediatrician?” she bombards me with questions.

“Ohmigod, calm down. She’s fine. Gabi, would you tell your mother that you’re fine?” I turn the phone around so that she can see her daughter who’s cramming a fistful of French fries in her mouth.

“¡Hola, Mamá!” She waves ketchup-drenched fingers at her.

“Hey, sweetie. Are you having fun with your tía?”

“So much fun! She bought me lots of pretty clothes, and a new doll, and a puppy.”

“A puppy!” Pilar squeaks with alarm.

“A stuffed one,” I assure her. “See.” I twist the phone around so that she can see the toy Pom sitting in a baby chair attached to the table right alongside Ashlyn’s.

“Phew. Okay.” She looks visibly relieved as she blots her dripping face with a Kleenex.

“I named him Rex, Mamá!”

“I thought she should name him Pequeño since he’s small, but she said Rex was the name of the dog in some cartoon she watches.” I steal a couple fries off Gabi’s plate as I’ve already finished the ones that came with my balsamic chicken and mozzarella sandwich.

“Sofia the First. That’s her favorite show.” Pilar sighs wistfully. She hasn’t even been gone twenty-four hours, but I guess that’s long enough to miss your kids.

“Never heard of it.” I chomp down on the fries. “So, give me the four-one-one on Chris’s bride-to-be. You’ve met her, right?”

“She’s very sweet. She works at a non-profit that raises money to implement clean water systems in third-world countries.”

I chortle. “That’s hilarious, considering I’ve seen Chris pee in fresh bodies of water on more than one drunken occasion.” And he was quite proud of the height he could achieve with his urine stream.

“Chris might have been a little wild and prone to shenanigans when he was younger,” Pilar admits, “but he’s very mature and grounded now. He’s doing great work as an associate in the Public Defender’s office and he mentors several underprivileged kids who adore him.”

“So, the only fun and interesting member of Ford’s family has turned into a boring do-gooder, too. What a bummer.” I take a noisy slurp from my root beer float.

“He grew up. It happens to everyone . . . eventually.” She directs a pointed look at me, which I choose to ignore. I’m the baby in the Alvarez family, so I have the God-given right to act spoiled and impulsive until I’m old and not-gray (because I’ll be dying my hair).

“Ready for some dessert?” Our server appears next to our table carrying a tray filled with small green flowerpots, each with a single large daisy in it.

Gabi claps her hands together. “Chocolate!”

“Wait? What was that? You’re not giving Gabi sweets for lunch, are you?”

“We’re at the American Girl Bistro. Of course, we had to get chocolate mousse flowerpots. They’re like the specialty of the house.” Our server, Bailey, informed me of this earlier. Apparently, children come from far and wide to partake of these garden-inspired confections. (The flowerpot is real and the flower’s fake, but it’s planted in a sizable heap of fluffy chocolate mousse, which takes the place of dirt.) “Oooooo, we get chocolate chip cookies, too!” I grab one off the plate as the server sets it down in front of me.

“Gabi cannot eat all that mousse, plus cookies. She’ll be sick as a dog!”

“There’s nothing wrong with Rex, Mamá.” Gabi uses a cookie to scoop some of the mousse out of her flowerpot so that she can get both of the desserts in one bite. Smart!

“Gabi will be fine. She’s got the Alvarez stomach of steel.” I know from experience that this digestive organ can withstand all kinds of abuse. Just a few weeks back, Topaz and Nacho got a brutal case of food poisoning from some food truck fritas (a Cuban burger with a patty made from heavily seasoned pork and ground beef, topped with spiced ketchup and shoestring fries) the three of us ate. They both ended up in the ER while I didn’t have a single stomach cramp. “Adiós, muchacha.” I disconnect the call before Pilar can harsh Gabi’s and my sugar buzz any further.

“This is good, isn’t it?” I ask my niece as she shovels in another spoonful of mousse.

Gabi, who’s sporting a chocolate mustache, grins from ear-to-ear, looking happier than a piglet in poop.