Love, in English

Jerry made the motion like he was a 90’s supermodel shaking out her hair. It made everyone uncomfortable.

“Now,” he said, oblivious to how much of a dork he was, “let’s all grab our bags and head up to the lobby. We’ve taken over this whole resort so the lobby and bar now will be our main meeting area. I’ve got some ice-breaker games for us to play and me and my assistant Janet will be assigning your room and room keys.”

“Ice breaker?” Mateo said to me. The sun broke through a few high clouds and bathed his face in light, showcasing his eyes. I could see that brown was an understated way of describing their color—they gleamed like a dark teak wood deck on a sailing ship. They were rich and layered and oh so deep.

I needed to look away but I didn’t. I brushed my unruly hair behind my ears and shrugged. “You know, like getting to know you.”

“But I already know you,” he said with an easy smile. “Why do I have to know anyone else?”

My heart did a fu

“This is yours,” Manolo suddenly interrupted us, thrusting my overgrown backpack at my feet before tossing a leather suitcase in front of Mateo. I expected Mateo to tell Manolo off for manhandling his stuff—it looked like a really pricey, custom-made suitcase—but Mateo just brushed it to the side with his foot and picked up my backpack instead. His arms barely strained under the weight but the muscles flexed just enough for my insides to flip again.

“Do you want to wear it or can I carry it up the hill?”

Wow. Chivalrous, too.

I stuck out my hand to take it. “I’m good. But thank you.”

“You are good?”

I sighed. I really was going to have to try and speak more coherently and less colloquial for the next month, or I was going to have a lot of confused and slang-slinging Spaniards on my hands.

“I can carry my own bag,” I explained patiently, “but thank you for offering.”

“Ah,” he said with a nod. I wondered how he was taking it, a young girl like myself schooling him on his language every two seconds. I supposed he’d just have to get used to it just as I would. I wasn’t even used to hanging out with men who were over thirty.

He picked up his suitcase with ease. “I thought you were saying you were good, like a good girl.”

An involuntary smile spread across my lips. “Oh, I am definitely not a good girl.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you.” He wagged his finger at me, eyes glittering.

He liked me? I knew he didn’t really mean anything by it but still. Butterflies tickled my chest and suddenly I was transported back to kindergarten all over again. I knew I needed to get a grip but I honestly hadn’t had a genuine crush on anyone in a very long time. Sex was one thing—I fucked when I was horny—but getting giddy like a schoolgirl because a guy said he liked me was another.

Of course, a crush would do me no good in this situation since he was not just a guy, but a man and a married one at that. And I had literally just got here.

“Want to go?” he asked. I blinked and realized that I had been standing there waging some eternal war with myself while everyone else had started lugging their bags up the hill. Only Mateo and I remained behind because I’d suddenly turned into a hormonal moron over someone I had just met.

“Yes,” I said, giving him a lopsided smile. I swung the bag up on my back, my shoulders burning with the weight, and started walking quickly up the hill. I wanted it to seem like I was just trying to catch up but in all reality, I wanted to leave the whole “like me” thing behind, back near the bus, where it belonged.

Chapter Three

Once we reached the crest of the hill, we finally got a good look at what would be our home for the next month or so. It was amazing and not at all what I expected. Instead of one big hotel-like building like I had imagined, there were numerous houses scattered about landscaped grounds. Most of them looked like two-story cottages, although some looked like duplexes. They all had their own patios and balconies and little plots of green grass lined with lavender. The houses had a similar look to the buildings I saw in town—whitewashed stone with dark brown wood trim and brick-colored shingles on the roofs.

In the middle of it all was one big brick and stone building that said “Reception” on it. There was a terra-cotta patio in front that lead into a wide, groomed lawn with small tables, wicker and lawn chairs dotted about. The occasional small oak tree provided shade. It was beautiful and I immediately saw myself soaking up the sun. I was pale as anything thanks to the endless rain of a Vancouver winter and spring and the little stint in London didn’t help either. I wanted my limbs, my hair, my everything to be golden.

I could overhear Jerry telling everyone that each cottage housed two apartments. All Anglos would be sharing an apartment with a Spaniard though we would each have our bedroom and bathroom. I’d be lying if I secretly didn’t start hoping that Mateo would be my roommate. At least I knew I couldn’t be paired up with Lauren.

All of us left our suitcases and backpacks on the patio while we crammed ourselves into the reception building to get our room keys and the apparent rules to the icebreaker game. The building was grandiose inside, in contrast to its humble exterior. Smooth orange tiles, faded brick that covered the walls and arched over the doorways in a defiance of gravity. Everything I remembered about flying buttresses and the like from my history classes were all coming back to me. However I could have described it though, it was very European, very ancient and very cool.

The reception desk was ma

Mateo didn’t seem the slightest bit impressed—maybe this kind of architecture was common here. He was, however, frowning at a little man in the line in front of us who kept turning around and giving him the eye. My gaydar wasn’t going off so it was more of a “do I know you from somewhere?” kind of look to which Mateo responded with a “you talkin’ to me?” stare. This was all done non-verbally, of course.

Finally we got up to one of the receptionists. I gave her my name and was handed a thick pamphlet and was asked if I had a credit card I wanted to put down for bar charges. It sounded like a dangerous proposition—so I did it.

While she took my Visa, Mateo read the writing on the envelope, “Vera Miles.”

“That’s me,” I said. Jerry had been yelling at us to take out our name tags and wear the lanyards around our neck for the entire program. I took it out and put it on. There was another smaller package inside the main one and Jerry had warned us not to look inside those yet. My room keys were also inside.

“There’s an actress called Vera Miles,” Mateo remarked. “She was in Psycho. Good film.”

I nodded, trying to make sure my name tag didn’t get stuck between my boobs. It was hard to do with Mateo watching me so closely. “Yup. But I’m named after my grandmother.”

“I’m named after my grandfather,” Mateo said with an easy smile. The receptionist handed me back my Visa card and looked to Mateo, her lips teasing into a smile when she got a good look at him. So, I wasn’t the only one who thought he was handsome as all hell. I could tell she also noticed his ring when he placed his hands on the counter, because her eyes flashed with disappointment.