A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,54
business inside me to say this and maybe not be wrong.” After a cleansing breath I press play. “I think your business needs something from mine.”
“A Cuban sugar witch?” Wry. His whole damn face. “I’m just jiving, Lila. Winchester is only borrowing you.” And so am I. Unsaid, it’s deafening on this hill.
I can’t think around it. But dissecting all the reasons why is going to take more time than I have between sentences, so I cling to what’s at the front part of my mind. “You already have the web store, but your brick and mortar shop can offer one more thing, besides personal connection. How do you feel when you eat one of my pastries?”
“Like I want more.”
I ignore the flip-flutter-drop of my stomach. Business, Lila. My smile wobbles. “Right. What if you sold brewed teas and a small assortment of pastries? And they were so good, customers would line up early for tea, and take a treat home before they’re sold out, or stay to eat them? And word of mouth—”
“Yeah, I get it. Contracting with a baker or two.”
“If you did, I predict your business would grow even bigger. At La Paloma, we have café tables where friends can meet and chat over a coffee and a treat. They sometimes sit there all morning and order more food. Or decide they want rolls plus bread. We keep them there and end up selling more. And keep them coming back more often.”
His expression sours. “Yeah, but I told you we’re not set up for that.”
“Maybe just think about it? With some small tweaks, you could be set up.”
“Small? I don’t think so. We don’t have tables or display cases like your joint, for one. Then there’s food handling and more man power to brew drinks. So even if you’re right, if I run your idea by Dad, don’t be put off if he doesn’t see it the way you do, yeah?”
Enough bristle peppers his words, mine naturally sharpen. “Well, sometimes we don’t see new things because we’re so used to seeing things the way they were.” New places. New people.
I straighten my spine, drawing in my knees and caging my hands over my face. Thinking how narrow my life back home actually was. The spaces I’ve lived and cooked in seem so small against all this green—and countries and continents more—beyond the base of this hill.
Fingertips press against my arm. I ignore them.
“Lila.” A whisper so close, hot breath puffs over my ear.
I turn my head and Orion’s lifted himself up, his face inches from mine. “Sorry if I got cross. It’s just been a lot.”
I search for his hand, squeezing. “I know. I’m the last person who needs an explanation.”
He nods and squeezes back. “Speaking of new things, you do seem happier here lately. You smile a lot. Especially when I take you to see wide-open landscapes you probably can’t find in Miami. Except the ocean, I suppose. The Atlantic goes farther than your eyes work too,” he muses softly. “Are those smiles for real?”
“Realest. Even though I miss that ocean and it’s colder here. But there are sweaters for that and why are we whispering?”
“Because we’re ridiculous fools. And yes, lots of jumpers and wooly sheep to make them.”
This would not happen in Miami. A woodland boy talking about sheep, our sides fused together, faces tipped to catch every ounce of blue raining down from a cloudless sky. We’ve been touching more lately—and not in any way that feels deliberate. Even with Andrés’s face still in the back of my head, my body always seems to drift close to Orion’s. And his drifts right back. More than sometimes, his fingers thread into mine or his palm spans the curve of my back. We hug for the perfect amount of too long, but never talk about it. We need to talk about it.
Guy friends have never touched me this way. Sure, Orion is my friend, but he’s also something else. Whatever that something is sits unknown on my palate, a taste I can’t describe. He’s not my boyfriend or trying to become the one I so recently lost. He’s also not acting like a guy who’s hours or days away from a hookup. Eight thousand miles—there and back, what I’ve left, and what I’m returning to—tells me that. It doesn’t whisper, either.
I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask. But just when I think I’ve found enough words to start, the FaceTime icon flashes on