Free Nacho Figueras Presents by Jessica Whitman Page A

and she could hardly look him in the eye. Though she had to admit to herself that she wasn’t sure if her inability to look at him grew out of regret or because she knew that, when she finally met his gaze, things would simply start up all over again.
    Her mother had gone to work for the day, and her father had been moved to the rehabilitation center and had made it very clear he did not want Kat there looking over his shoulder while he learned to walk again. So she had her days free. They would be alone in the house for hours.
    This was not a good idea.
    But still, he had brought the journals. And he was willing to translate, which was incredibly thoughtful, and—she finally allowed herself to really look at him—oh no, he looked so good .
    He was wearing jeans and a thin white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to accommodate the cast on one side and his muscular brown forearm on the other. The shirt looked soft and perfectly worn, and was exquisitely tailored to fit his broad shoulders and chest, tapering down to his narrow waist. His jet-black hair was just long enough to curl under his ears and past his open collar. His eye was still bruised, but no longer swollen.
    She could smell him. A heady, clean mix of salt and musk, with just a hint of something sweet and citrusy. She glanced into his bright green eyes and she suddenly had a flash of him under her, filling her, the sharp thrust of him that had sent convulsive shivers through her body, that made her skin burn and the breath leave her lungs. The way his eyes had seared into hers in that final moment of release…
    She briefly squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again. “Come in,” she said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I’ll make you some lunch in trade for your translation services.”
    He smiled slyly. “I am willing to start with lunch, Katarina, but translating español can be very taxing work, you know. There might have to be better incentives.”
    Kat swallowed and tried to sound brisk. “Well then, maybe I can make dessert as well.”
    And then, before he could answer, she whirled around and headed toward the kitchen. “I have some amazing tomatoes from my mama’s garden,” she called out to him. Damn. Her voice had the slightest tremor; she was sure he would notice. “I’ll make a Caprese salad, does that sound good?”
    “ Sí , delicious.” He sounded amused. He definitely knew that she was holding herself back.
    She studiously avoided looking his way as she busied herself in the kitchen, slicing cheese and tomatoes and warming a loaf of bread.
    “What can I do to help?” he asked.
    “Oh, actually, you can go out back to the garden and pick some basil. You know what that looks like, right?”
    He shot her an insolent look. “Yes, I know what basil looks like.”
    He went outside, and she continued to prepare the salad. After the cheese and tomatoes were arranged in perfect scalloped slices on a big green platter, she opened the back door and walked barefoot out into the yard to find him.
    From the backyard, Kat could hear, but not see, the ocean. Her parents never had the kind of money that would allow for a view, but if Kat followed a crooked little path that skirted the house across the way, she could be on a small, pebbly beach within five minutes.
    The garden was small but absolutely packed with vegetation. Her mother had an extremely green thumb and had turned their quarter-acre lot into a carefully cultivated jungle of greenery.
    There was a white picket fence around the edges of the yard, draped in pink rambling roses and twining vines of fragrant yellow honeysuckle. There was a cluster of citrus trees—lime and lemon and orange—which smelled heavenly no matter what the season and provided leafy green privacy from the neighbors. There was a small reflecting pool, choked with flowering water lilies, where the occasional wavering flash of an overgrown goldfish came into view amid the dark leaves and waxy white