Page 20 of Tastes Like Summer

She presses her lips together and thinks on it for a moment. “You’re right. You could. And honestly, intellectually and emotionally you could also pass for a twenty-four year-old, so you’d be a perfect match.”

I sputter a laugh. “Wow, really? High compliment, coming from Diana Castillo,” I say sarcastically. “What about you, though?”

“What about me?”

“Would you date a half-plus-seven?”

“A twenty-two, twenty-three year-old?” She winces. “I don’t have time for babies. Already got two kids—don’t need another one.” I burst out laughing, watching her smile at her own joke. “I’m not looking for anything now, but when I’m ready, I’ll be looking for a real man.”

“I’m a real man.” And as soon as the words escape my lips I want to die. Want to hit myself in the head with the tongs, and bury myself in the bowl of vegan coleslaw I spent all morning making.

“Um,” Diana looks up at me, face flushed to her hairline.

My jaw drops as I scramble, tongue-tied, for something to say, how to save this awkward encounter.

“I just meant⁠—”

“No, it’s okay,” she says with an awkward laugh. “It’s fine; I know what you meant.” Which is great, because I have no idea what I meant. Would love for her to explain it to me.

“Right.”

The silence that falls between us is painful as we just stare at each other. I hold her gaze—or maybe she holds mine—and that’s when I notice how beautiful her brown eyes really are. The depth of color in them, the variety of different hues. Coffee black and dark chocolate, with mahogany and flecks of gold—even a splash of hunter green. Never in my life have I seen such beautiful, complex eyes. Never in my goddamn life have I noticed someone’s eyes like this.

What is going on with me? So she’s hot. Big deal. So many other women are hot, too. But I’ve never had this… reaction before.

As if out of my control, I take a step toward her. Diana inhales sharply, tilting her head back to look up at me better, the wind tugging at the loose tendrils of her hair as if trying to untie them from that bun. A wave of honey and peaches—and is that mint?—overwhelms my senses. Unconsciously, I step closer. And just as I’m about to speak, to say… something, anything⁠—

“Are you getting ready to serve lunch soon?” one of the campers interrupts.

“So this is vegan?” I hear one of the kids in the buffet line ask Michael.

“Yes,” he practically grunts out.

“And does it have any added sugars? Any preservatives?” The kid pokes at the small amount of coleslaw on his plate, as if checking for poison.

Michael gawks at the boy, who does not look a day older than seven. “Uh. It’s all freshly made. Farm to table.” He shoots me a glance and shakes his head in disbelief before turning back to the boy. “That means that⁠—”

The boy raises a hand to cut Michael off. “I know what farm to table means.” The kid rolls his eyes in frustration while I do my best to suppress laughter. “I just want to make sure you’re not putting any garbage in our food.”

Michael crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares at the kid as the line behind the boy begins to grow by the second, hungry children and parents quickly growing impatient.

“Listen, kid. I know my stuff. I know how to treat food and what’s healthy. I know⁠—”

The boy rolls his eyes once more and sighs. “Fine. Just tell me what’s gluten free. I’m not allowed to have anything else.”

Michael grunts and serves the boy another scoop of the most colorful coleslaw I’ve ever seen—a delicious kaleidoscope of purples and oranges that makes my mouth water—and a piece of barbecued chicken cooked to perfection—far from the breast that I made this morning for Emiliana’s lunch.

The boy glances down at his plate and leaves with an exasperated sigh before walking over to the nearest picnic table, poking at his food with hesitation.

“I cannot believe that just happened,” Michael mutters. “The absolute gall.”

I burst into laughter, unable to keep it in any longer. “Seriously? Did you just use the word gall?”

“I’m not used to anyone questioning my culinary skills.”

“I’m sure you get ‘Yes, Chef’ all day⁠—”

“And night,” he cuts me off with a smirk.