A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,53

before I ran into Roth. Said you killed him good and dead with whatever’s in this package. And now I’m thinking what the hell does it matter that it’s nearly eleven and I’m knackered?” She unwraps the parchment.

“There’s actually a version of that sandwich called the medianoche, with softer egg bread. They got their name because they were usually eaten late at night, after clubbing.” I urge her to dig in. “So I figure, salsa dancing, band rehearsal. Close enough, right?”

Jules grins and takes a hearty bite. “This is aces, my friend.”

She’s accepted my sorry; we’re good and we lean against moss-painted stone that was built eons before either of us was ever imagined. A friend, eating my food after late-night music. Miami, Winchester—like salsa dancing and band rehearsal, they’re different but also kind of the same.

18

Today is too bloody summer to run, Orion declares. He has other plans, plus a suspicious knapsack tossed onto Millie’s caramel leather seat. I had one job: pack lunch. This time I fit onto the bike and around Orion easily. I wear his backpack and balance Cate’s insulated tote on one shoulder.

We’re in thin layers for rising temps, open chambray and checked cotton shirts flapping over tees, jeans, and almost matching Chucks. I breathe in the sun-wind-freshness of it all. Can I bottle some to take home?

We ride to the edge of town, parking Millie off a tree-stamped road. A grassy hill rises high and proud. “Today your tour stops at St. Catherine’s Hill.” Orion uses his radio announcer voice. “The site of an iron age fort and now a prime picnic spot.” He gestures to a small wooded grove crowning the top.

Too steep to climb without help, the hill’s man-made steps resemble a line of railroad tracks carved into grass and wildflower patches. Three hundred steps, Orion tells me. We take them slowly, not wanting to workout, just to talk. Halfway up, we trade info about Jules and Roth and Flora. Unfortunately, my magic fruit-filled distraction biscuits failed to keep his dad from finding out about Flora’s little late-night jaunt, leaving Mr. Maxwell somewhere between annoyed and pissed.

“You planning on eating flies for lunch?” Orion asks.

We’ve reached the summit and my mouth wants to hang wide open. To the north, the city lies below, a daytime version of my view from St. Giles Hill. But southward… qué bonito. The southern expanse opens to endless downs. Green, greener, greenest, farther than I can see.

My eyes are too small for this England summer day. “I could eat this whole place for lunch. But I brought Cuban food.”

Orion bops against my side, eyes hooded. “I knew you would.” He takes my cue for our landing spot; I want to look southward for about twenty-seven hours, at least. “I’m prepared, this time,” he says and unrolls a thick tartan wool blanket from the backpack. “When I say I’m thinking of your arse, you’ll have no reason to slap me.”

“Plenty of other reasons.” My laugh runs free as I sit. He’s eyeing my cooler bag with predatory attention. I take my time. “Leftover Cubanos, freshly heated.”

Orion pantomimes a knife into his heart.

“Lemon pound cake I made for teatime.” I reveal a little sack with two slices and forks.

“Holy.” He breathes out the word.

That’s all—holy. Perfect. “And finally, these are from breakfast service. Today the Crow guests got to try empanadas.” I show him the miniature dough semicircles. Sugar dusted egg wash gleams on top and the edges are fork-pressed. “Cuba meets England, again. These are strawberry and cream cheese.”

He bites into an empanada and makes a noise straight out of a steamy love scene. I call him on it. “You’re wicked and crude, Lila Reyes. But so am I and this pastry’s damn good.”

We eat in companionable silence until I remember food wasn’t the only thing I dragged up this hill. “I want to float something by you,” I tell him.

“Yeah?” He’s the lazy one now, body stretched long and lean on the blanket, arms butterflied behind his head. His tee rides up and his jeans hang low. So, Orion Maxwell wears red boxers and has been hiding plank-flat abs? “You could float me like a buoy. I’m bloody stuffed.”

“Lila?” he says louder, crashing into my mental detour over the ridged sinews of skin above his waistband. How many crunches does he do?

“Um.” I busy my hands by adjusting my top and detangling my hair. “I mean, I had an idea. Pilar runs our books but there’s enough