Chapter 12

It was well into the afternoon before Irene’s ache-filled body stretched awake. A groan from cracked lips broke the silence. Her eyelashes fluttered open to find dimness beyond the flowered curtains purchased at one of the cutest shops along the Rambla de Catalunya.

A shaky sigh escaped her. She’d made it home ... from paradise.

As she blinked, then rubbed crusty eyes, memories tumbled. Deep in her core, a luxurious wave of warmth flowed, and she stifled a yawn. The images sharpened.

The wondrous night with Conor; the soul-wobbling show for Oscar, then afterward. That delightful and revelatory breakfast. What he’d said. What she’d said. The way the young man had been with her, so gentle, as if she were a precious package, while getting her into a rideshare. A final press of those magical lips. His murmured promise. The one sent back to him as their tongues parted.

Her brows tightened as she surveyed the empty room, then the sealed door. Oscar had been waiting. A bubble of annoyance surged. He hadn’t shut up, prying her with query after mumbled query.

Oh, he’d also asked if she were alright. Her head had been thumping like a samba drum from all the champagne. Her heart thumped from everything else. Despite her slow nods along the way to the bedroom and explaining she was exhausted, he’d followed. So many questions. A glance showed his shorts had been tented. His eyes had become twin shiny flares.

“Should’ve told him,” she murmured to the emptiness.

Ai, Dios, but what to say? What not to say? His fantasy had come alive. One of hers as well. Wait, a fantasy of hers? Her underside throbbed from the youthful, muscled tiger’s forceful hammering ... so, perhaps.

While her brain began spiraling once more, a rumble in her stomach echoed. With a groan as tight muscles moved, she rose from the bed. A glance in the mirror above her dresser made her gasp.

But for the soft white cotton taut across her pelvis, she was naked. Red marks surrounded still-furious nipples. Large handprints marred both breasts. She swallowed a giggle. At least their paleness had gained some color. For the first time in forever, as she eased out one hip, then the other, the survey didn’t make her cringe.

“Si, a little heavier,” she whispered.

Yet the flab seemed ... less. Another quiet chuckle escaped as both hands roamed her flanks. For a woman her age, the curves glowing in the filtered sunlight weren’t...

“Hmm, not so bad.”

Another rumble in her belly brought her focus to the top drawer. She found a pink camisole. Cute, with delicate lace trim, also both the thinnest and loosest. Yet even the wispiness sliding over both angry stems sent fire across her body, and she gulped air for a good long time.

At last, the flames calmed, and she eased the door open to peek. Soft voices came from the home office. The squeak of leather and a muttered curse brought her attention to the sofa. Focused on the television, Oscar was watching FC Barcelona struggle once more.

“Bueno,” she muttered before sneaking toward the kitchen.

The world wobbled as she made and devoured a small sandwich. Only after following it with two large glasses of water and a pair of pain pills did she look up to find a shadow in the doorframe. Oscar’s pale visage came into focus. He was staring at her bare legs.

“Um, you’re not wearing shorts,” he mumbled.

She glanced downward and shrugged. Only the triangle of cotton peeked beneath the slinky top’s swaying hem. “No, I’m not.”

“So, uh, mi amor—”

His whine was cut off by a swish of her hand, and she peeked past him. In the office, their daughters were at the desk, laughing at something on their tablets. A slow sigh left her as she found him again.

“Not now. The girls are here,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

“Si. I’m alright,” she mumbled despite the deep ache, a deeper void, and the sudden arrival of tremors.