Pure Belleza | ✔️

(45)

Amalia couldn't come back on Sunday. Her little sister came down with a temperature and her Dad was out for the evening so he couldn't watch her.

Instead of sitting at home and moping about it, I asked her for the address and hopped the last train to Philadelphia.

It was about five when I tapped on the dark blue door of their home.

The neighbour hood was quaint. Wide footpaths, the front doors right there on the pavement. No front lawns or fences.

But some houses had little garden boxes running along the front of them.

When Amalia opened the door, she was wearing a big hoodie, the sleeves covered her hands, her hair was cascading in waves around her face and I couldn't tell if she was wearing pants but she did have long socks on. They matched.

"Hey," she smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I didn't know if you would actually come."

She waved me in.

"Yeah I thought I could keep you company. I hope that's alright?"

She nodded, her gaze swept me over, admiration in her smile as she looked at my sweat pants, fitted long sleeve and beanie. "You look good."

My heart sped up at her compliment and I leaned in, pressing a soft closed mouth kiss on her lips. "So do you."

She ran her hands through her hair, throwing it back over her shoulder with a tousle. "Not as good as last night though, huh?"

She winked and turned around, leaving me with the reminder of her lingerie as she slipped around the corner.

She had so much confidence. But she wasn't arrogant or full of herself. When I looked at her, I thought of soft and shy. Her face was full of innocence.

I loved that she could say things that were sexy as hell without even flinching. It was so alluring. She knew what she wanted.

I toed off my chucks and followed her to find that she was standing in a small kitchen.

The window looked out on to the street. It had sheer blinds for privacy. There was a small wooden island that had enough room for a plate and some breakfast spreads.

The cupboard doors were painted different colours. Green, blue, green, blue. There was so much colour in what would otherwise be a regular little kitchen.

"I'm just making some pollo a la riojana," she said, slicing chicken breasts into halves. Ingredients scattered the small bench top. Onions, garlics, peppers, wine. "Or chicken and chorizo stew. It's so good. It'll help Berne's with her flu. I'm hoping."

"Need some help?" I stood beside her. I loved the smell of her hair.

She smiled, still watching what she was doing as she cut and threw chicken into a bowl. She nodded. "If you want. Do you cook much? I don't do it a lot unless it's Spanish recipes. It's just one of the ways I keep in touch with my roots."

"I like that," I pushed my sleeves up to the elbows. She kept her head down but I caught her gaze move towards my arms for a moment. "I love food from other cultures. American food is sort of bland in comparison."

She nodded and then we both turned around to the sound of footsteps dragging into the kitchen.

I assumed that Berne's was the one staring at us with half closed lids and a bright red nose.

She was small with an over bite and black hair to her shoulders. She was wrapped in a robe with a box of tissues under her arm.

"Hey Berne's," Amalia ran her hands under the faucet. "You feeling alright?"