Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
He looks down at the Band-Aid. “I grew up similar to you, I’d imagine. A privileged child. Boarding school in Switzerland, college in New York City, graduate school in London.”
So that explains why he only has a subtle Spanish accent. He’s not quite from anywhere.
“I didn’t consider a single expense. Money was no object. And then… the rug was pulled out from under me. By the time I was in my early twenties and ready to start my hospitality group, my father’s company was in ruins. My parents were filing for bankruptcy. My trust fund was dried up, and doors that had been open for me my entire life were suddenly bolted shut.”
“But you clearly didn’t let that stop you,” I hint.
He shrugs. “At the time, I hadn’t ever stepped foot in the real world, had never waited tables or washed dishes. Looking back, I appreciate the fall from grace. Having to start from the ground up gave me an insatiable motivation to succeed. There was no safety net, nowhere to go but up. I managed my first nightclub when I was twenty-three.” He chuckles at the memory. “A fucking idiota with no idea what I was getting myself into, but I pulled through. Here, flatten your arm.” I’d forgotten all about my tattoo. I hold my arm out for him and he places the bandage on my skin, gentle as ever. He smooths it down with his thumb. “It looks good. I would have been worried if you weren’t already a few days out from having it done.”
I don’t care about my tattoo. “Is the club still here? On the island?”
He drops my arm and steps away, crumpling the Band-Aid trash into a ball and arcing it into the garbage can near the vanity like it’s a basketball. “Not anymore. The lease got too expensive. That was before I bought my properties outright. It taught me a lot, though, and I got a taste for success. I took the money from that business and funneled it into the next venture and the next.”
I adjust my towel. “And that hunger for success still motivates you? Work, work, work all day, every day, to keep the sky from falling again?”
He looks at me with a sardonic smile. “You say it like I don’t do anything else outside of work.”
“Do you?”
“I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
“I’m sure it took some rearranging on your part. I doubt you had the morning free.”
“Barely.” He chuckles when I lean closer and prod his chest with my finger. “All right. Some,” he relents. “A meeting or two.”
I smile, then ask, “Are your parents proud of you? I know Dolores would be.”
“Yes. Dolores would be.” He shrugs, looking away to partially conceal his faraway look. “I’m not close with my parents. I can’t say whether they’re proud or not.”
“Really? Are they here? On Ibiza?”
He sighs and I know he’s close to pulling the plug on this conversation. It must not be easy for him to talk about his family. “No, and it’s a relief to be away from them. My mom is very old-school, conservative, traditional, religious. Now that she’s no longer with my dad, she lives with her friends, cloistered away in a small village near Barcelona. She goes to Mass twice a day and doesn’t even keep a cell phone. She doesn’t approve of this lifestyle, wishes I would settle down and give her grandchildren. Montones y montones.” He sighs at the thought. “My dad is the exact opposite, chasing the next failing venture, out every night with a new woman.”
I drop my hand against his forearm and squeeze. “I’m sorry. That sounds… complicated. I don’t blame you for creating a life for yourself separate from them.”
His dark eyes settle on me, and I become hyperaware of how close we’re standing and the fact that my hand is still draped on his forearm. I release it quickly.
“It’s not so bad. I still see them every now and then, and I’m close to Juan Carlos. He’s my cousin, but in many ways we’re like brothers. Are you close with your parents?”
“Yes, very. My mom and I don’t always see eye to eye. She’s old-school, too, maybe the American WASP version of your mother.” I smile. “She can be a little judgmental, but it’s out of love. My dad is easygoing, though, the peacemaker. He and I love to surf together.”
“And it’s just you? No siblings?”
This question always creates a crossroads for me. I can offer a simple answer—“Yes, it’s just me”—or I can tell him the truth. I very rarely choose the second option. It’s not because I want to brush aside Winnie’s existence altogether but because there’s no way to share her story without somehow altering the mood, shifting things and settling a gloomy cloud over an entire conversation.