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Did he go?
I close my mouth; I feel like crying. I’m a jerk. He’s respected what I asked of him, and, whether I like it or not, that should please me.
It takes me hours to get to sleep.
7
The first thing I do Christmas morning is call my father. He’s glad about Eric and me. He asks me if I like the house Eric bought for me. It surprises me that my father knows, but then he confesses he’s been in on everything. Eric asked him, and he was delighted to supervise the work and keep the secret.
Eric and my father get along very well. I like that, although it also worries me a little.
Once I hang up, I open the bedroom door and peek out. I don’t see anything; I just hear music. I think it’s Stevie Wonder singing. I brush my teeth, comb my hair, and put on a pair of jeans. When I walk into the expansive living room, which connects to the kitchen, I see Eric sitting on the couch and reading a newspaper. He smiles when he sees me. He looks so good in a gray-and-purple Lakers T-shirt and his jeans.
“Merry Christmas! Do you want some coffee?” he asks.
“Yes, with cream,” I say.
I see the tension has lifted. I watch as he goes to the kitchen, and I concentrate on his hands, those very strong hands I like so much, especially when they touch me and drive me crazy with delight.
“Do you want something to eat?”
“No, thanks.”
“Nothing?”
“I’m on a diet.”
“That surprises me. You don’t need a diet,” he says as he brings me my coffee and cream. “Eat.”
I don’t respond. I just look at him and drink my coffee. Eric doesn’t take his eyes off me the whole time either.
“Did you sleep OK?”
“Yes,” I lie. I have no plans to confess that I didn’t sleep a wink because I was thinking about him. “And you?”
“Honestly, I couldn’t close my eyes thinking about you.”
That little look of his drives me crazy. To avoid temptation—because I’m about to rip that Lakers T-shirt off him with my teeth—I get up and go to the window to look outside. It’s raining. Two seconds later, I sense him behind me, although he’s not touching me.
“What would you like to do today?”
Sex! But of course, I don’t plan on telling him that, so I just shrug.
“Whatever you want.”
“Hmm ... Whatever I want?” he whispers in my ear.
Hearing his voice and imagining what he’s thinking give me goose bumps. I can’t help myself and turn to look at him.
“I want,” he adds, teasing, “your breasts right now, sweetheart.”
“Eric ...”
He grins and playfully pulls away in his own devilish way.
“You want to go to Zahara and see Frida and Andrés?” he asks. That sounds like an excellent idea, and I happily agree.
Half an hour later, we’re in his car headed to Zahara de los Atunes. He turns on the radio, and “Convince Me”plays again. Why is this song always playing? I close my eyes and curse in silence. When I open them again, I look out the window. I stay quiet.