My omega has been toying with me for the last twenty minutes and I have been ignoring her.
The plan is: go to lunch, eat the food, be professional, leave on the boat at four.
That is a terrible plan,my omega says.
It is a perfect plan,I say.
You pinned your hair up three times,she says.The first time was too severe, the second time had a strand coming down that you decided was accidental and then spent four minutes making look more accidental, and the third time you changed your shirt.
I spilled tea on my shirt,I say.
You spilled tea on your shirt because you were thinking about Santos's forearms,she says.
Well, maybe.
I settled on the green one, and I have been standing in front of the mirror for two minutes pretending I am checking for stains and not checking whether the green brings out my eyes and makes my olive skin look warm and whether the way it sits across my chest is doing what I think it is doing.
It is doing what I think it is doing.
Let's go,my omega says.
The corridor outside the dining room takes me past their kitchen which is equipped, but smaller than the main kitchen of the island. I slow down slightly because the smell coming through it is garlic and good olive oil and something herby and warm and my stomach has been making its position clear since I got within twenty feet of it. She kicks, once, which I am choosing to interpret as hurry up rather than turn around and go back to your room.
I stop outside the dining room door.
I can hear them inside. Santos's voice, low and making a case for something. Tomas's response, measured and unimpressed. Matteo saying nothing, which probably means he agrees or doesn't know enough about cooking to weigh in.
I walk in.
Santos sees me first.
He's standing near the window with his arms folded and his dark hair slightly undone and his white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow and the ink on his forearm catching the afternoon light, and when I come through the door his arms unfold and his whole expression shifts, as if he's just as surprised I'm here as he is relieved.
The saffron in his scent hits me before he says a word.
Warm and open and spiking in a way that moves through the air of the room and wraps around my strawberry before I've finished crossing the threshold, and my omega makes a sound that I am doing my best to contain.
"You came," Santos says.
"You cooked," I say.
"Carmen supervised," he says. "By phone. From the other side of the island. With diagrams."
I cross to the stove because I can't help myself and also because the garlic is smelling exactly right and my body hasbeen making decisions without consulting me since I walked in. Santos steps back to give me space, which puts him approximately one foot behind my right shoulder, and his saffron is everywhere and the kitchen is warm and I look at the pan.
The garlic is golden and not burnt. The herbs are fresh, so he probably got them from the herb garden.
"Move the pasta off the heat," I say. "It'll over-reduce."
"I was just about to do that," he says.
I move it myself and adjust one thing and step back and Santos's hand brushes my arm as he reaches past me to get the wooden spoon and neither of us says anything about it but the saffron in his scent spikes sharp and warm and my strawberry does something embarrassing and entirely without my permission.
"It smells good," I say.
"Wait until you taste it," he says, and he is close and his voice has dropped into the register it drops into when he means more than one thing at once, and I turn around and go to the table before my rose decides to make an announcement.
Matteo stands when I reach the table.