The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,53

first awareness was a burst of scent, something spicy and dark, and she swayed under the force of it. His mouth was wide, his lips deliciously lush and slow as he angled his head to fit their noses. She clung to the railings on either side, letting him put his hands on her face. He lifted his head for a blue second, their eyes meeting in confusion and permission, before he bent again, those heavy lashes falling, his hands on her jaw making her feel tiny and beloved.

It was too much, the flavor of him. He tasted of blue water, a lazy lap of lips and tongue that made her breath catch and her back arch. Her breasts touched his chest.

It was such a vivid connection that the part of her brain that would have been screaming warnings was just awash in the green narcotic flood of him. And he, too, made a soft noise of surprise, taking a step closer to slide one arm around her waist. He supped of her lower lip, touched it with his thumb.

Suddenly she gathered herself and pulled back. He didn’t move away, but lifted his head. “Wow,” he said hoarsely.

“Yeah, but no.” She swallowed, forcing herself to take a step backward, an action that made her dizzy. He saw that and stepped toward her, but she held up a hand. “This would be just a terrible, terrible idea,” she said.

He frowned, quizzically. “It is.” He stepped backward. “I don’t know why I did that. I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t help looking again at his mouth, a sweetness like hay and morning moving through her blood. “I’m not mad. Let’s just not, okay?”

“Okay. You’re right. Let’s—uh—” He closed his mouth. “Let’s go downstairs.”

SEVENTEEN

ISOBEL’S RULES FOR DRINKING

1. Eat a lot. Then eat some more.

2. Pick one kind of alcohol and stick with it the whole night. No exceptions.

3. Every hour on the hour, drink a big glass of water.

4. Eat some more.

5. If you’re gonna do shots, never do more than one per hour.

6. When you get home, drink a big glass of water and take an aspirin.

EIGHTEEN

In his kitchen, Elena seemed smaller than she did at the restaurant. As he sat there, sipping a rubied merlot, watching her roll blue corn tortillas around a chicken-and-chile blend for tiny enchiladas, he could see she was no beauty. Her eyes showed signs of age, a little puffy with too much work, and she had little or no makeup on.

Around them swirled the moody music he’d chosen for the restaurant, a soundtrack as layered and rich and subtle as one of Elena’s stews or the little taquitos she made that seemed so ordinary until you bit into one and it exploded in your mouth with a dancing parade of surprises—nutmeg or saffron, or some exotic layer that one did not expect.

Into the music mix, he’d salted some Norah Jones because Elena liked her, and a little Ella Fitzgerald, that “Summertime” he loved so much, and some Alicia Keyes. The girls, a nod to the female artists in evidence at the restaurant, not only the chef, but the head bartender, and even the Frieda Kahlo thread to the decorating—Patrick’s doing, not his. Julian had also added some of the Lhasa de Sela the vegetarian restaurant had been playing the other night, with some horns and a Caribbean beat and songs in Spanish and French. There was more, some old Santana and things no one but Julian would have thought to include—a moody old cut from the Rolling Stones, and one from an old bluegrass gospel song, and a CCR song he loved. Like Elena’s spices, it seemed odd until you experienced it.

Elena worked without speaking, listening to the music, her head swinging, nodding. Sliding a tray of the tiny enchiladas into the oven, she wiped her counter. “This is very moody,” she said, finally. “The songs all have a feeling of yearning to them. Hunger.”

A splash of embarrassment filled his throat for a minute, and he could only stare at her, running back through the cuts in his mind. “I guess they do.”

“I don’t think it’s bad, necessarily—people won’t listen to it that closely, and it gives a pleasant mood—but you might want to lace in some other things, too. Some upbeat instrumentals, not too over the top, but some Segovia, maybe, some flamenco. Matt Skellenger?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“I have a CD. I’ll loan it to you. I played it the night you came to dinner at my