Page 57 of The Stranger

“A love spat.” He nods sagely.

“No, Alejandro, it was green and slimy,” Sylvie protests.

“Poor Paco. Rejected again.”

“It definitely wasn’t a polite no,” I agree.

“Llamas are complicated creatures.”

“More like gross.” My nose wrinkles and he smiles, which is sort of nice. Straight teeth and twinkly eyes.

“But if you think about it, humans aren’t much better.”

“Complicated or gross?” Probably both, I decide, thinking back to a very rough shift I’d experienced as a student doctor where a man shuffled into Emergency with a Barbie doll stuck up his bum.

“Complicated,” he says with a smile. “We can spend weeks, maybe months, dancing around the object of our longing, pretending we’re not interested or playing hard to get.” His smile widens. “At least llamas skip straight to the mess.”

A burst of laughter springs from my chest, and Sylvie laughs along with me, not wanting to be left out.

“Llamas are funny,” she says, reaching for my hand. “And a little bit stinky.”

“Very true. But he’ll be back.” Al nods in the direction of Paco, who I swear, seems to be plotting his next move.

“What happens then?” I find myself asking.

“She’ll probably spit on him again.” His eyes dance with humor as they hold mine. “And again and again as a sign of his devotion.”

“Sounds more like a sign of his stupidity.”

“Possibly. A pretty face can do terrible things to a man’s judgement.” His voice sounds a touch lower. Is he flirting with me?

For a beat, neither of us say anything, though I can feel Sylvie’s gaze darting between us as though trying to read the situation.

“You do remember she spat in his face?” I remind him.

“And all he can remember is her eyes.”

Something not at all unpleasant blooms inside me. “I see no romance here.”

“Damn.” He pushes his hand through his hair. “I was hoping you’d focus on his devotion, not his inability to take a hint.” His attention flicks Paco’s way who is already prancing determinedly back toward Lola. “Would it help if I told you I’m brighter than him?”

“That’s a pretty low bar.” My retort hits the air with a laugh.

“How about you let me buy you a drink. See if I can clear it.” He gives an unrepentant grin. “Either way, I promise I’m clever enough to stop before the spit.”

16

LUC

Another day and another dinner. It’s strange how they’re fast becoming the highlight of my day. Here, at least, I can talk to Primrose without giving a thought to how it might seem to others. Dinner table conversation is expected and therefore far less likely to become fodder for gossip. It’s here, I learn about the woman in small ways.

And when she’s seated across the table from me, I don’t think about her bikini. Much. And I don’t dwell on how she looks when she reaches her peak, when her mouth softly opens, and her gaze softens and⁠—

“…and his nails were very dirty, but he said he’d been taking samples, so Primrose shook his hand.” Sylvie flicks a salad leaf around her plate, her body moving to and fro as her little feet swing under the table.

“Is that right, mon chou?” I pat her hand and gird my mind against such images. They have no place in my head when I’m with my children.

“But really, Papa. I don’t like the vines because of the pests.” At this, she shoots a sideways glance her brother’s way. “And I don’t mean beetles.”