Catalina and Diego never got over each other after high school, but years later they meet by chance, and multi-millionaire Diego sweeps her off of her feet.
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Diego and Catali...
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I crack two eggs into a pan. Pop some wheat bread in the toaster. As I'm pouring coffee, Diego walks into the kitchen and kisses me, which sends happy tingles through my body.
He's freshly showered and smells like my coconut soap. He's back in his t-shirt-track pants combo but looks no less sexy than when he was wearing a suit in Miami. I kiss his cheek three times and feel his rough stubble against my lips.
"You smell like a piña colada," I whisper, biting his neck playfully. "Yummy."
We kiss for a bit, standing near the stove. He puts his arms around me. "I could get used to this."
"What? Breakfast, or me?"
"Both." He kisses my forehead.
Our weekend in Miami was incredible, but something about being in my parents' home, playing house for a morning, makes me grin from ear to ear. This is the way were supposed to be.
"Can I help?" he asks, hovering near the coffee maker.
"Are you kidding? Shoo. No. Go sit down. I'll serve you at the table."
Who is this woman? I never acted like this with any guy in New York that spent the night. I turn down the heat on the eggs and peer into the toaster.
Diego sits and checks his phone, which reminds me of something.
"I'm hoping we can get my email situation worked out today. I have lots to do. I checked my emails on my phone, and the server still seems to be down."
A frown crinkles Diego's forehead, and his dark eyebrows draw together. "I'll make sure it's fixed. Oh, and hey. Please don't let me forget to double-check my car insurance today, okay? I switched carriers and need to make sure the direct deposit is coming out of my account."
I set the coffee in front of him – black, as he likes it – and run my hand through his wet hair. It's like we're life partners now, sharing the adult details of our lives.
I love it.
"Oh!" I'm suddenly flustered. "Thanks. You made me remember something else. My mom told me to keep a lookout for a letter from the city. Taxes or something. She wanted me to send it to her. I haven't gotten the mail in days. Be right back."
I hustle outside to the curb and grab the fistful of crap that's jammed in the mailbox. After I toss the mail on the kitchen counter, I slide Diego's eggs onto a plate, remove the toast and butter it.
"You're not eating?" he asks when I set the plate in front of him.
I shake my head and turn to the mail. "Just coffee for me this morning. Well, maybe I'll have a bite of your toast –"
My words stop when I see a big, yellow manila envelope with my name on it. It's in handwritten cursive, and I wonder what's inside. Odd. I rarely get mail and haven't received anything since I've been back in Florida. I mentally run through a list of people who know I'm back.
