Page 49 of It Takes Three To Tango

“Been the little spoon.”

He chuckles and wraps his arm a little tighter. He’s warm, and I feel safe with him curled around me. I’m already starting to drift off.

“Well! Is this what happens when I leave you alone for five minutes?”

I blink awake to the sight of Florencio standing over us, his hands on his hips.

“Hey, Flo.” I’m still groggy and can’t manage more words right now.

“There I am, working hard on dinner when I think, ‘I’ll make the guys a coffee as I know they’re working hard, too.’ But then I find the room empty, and when I eventually track you down, you’re asleep!”

His mouth is smiling, and his eyes are dancing, though, so I think he’s just teasing.

“You brought coffee?” I feel Constantin’s low rumble against my back as he peels himself away and sits up, pushing himself back to lean against the headboard. I do the same.

Florencio sits on the side of the bed and hands Constantin a mug, which he clasps in both hands. He takes a long swig and then sighs, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “That’s perfect. You’re like an angel, a coffee-bringing angel.” He opens his eyes and takes another gulp. “Thanks, Cio.”

I look between them and see the smile on Florencio’s face.

“Cio?” I ask.

“He said that as you had taken Flo, I had to come up with another name for him.”

I don’t remember when I started calling him Flo, or even asking him if it was all right. I can be a blundering klutz sometimes. But if he asked Constantin to choose something else, I guess he’s fine with it.

“Cio, I like that. But I remember my words were, ‘Florencio is a mouthful.’ Though from what I’ve seen, I don’t think I’m the mouthful here.” He pointedly looks down at Constantin’s groin, deliberately licking his lips. The action and look in his eyes make my own cock twitch in memory of those lips round it yesterday. I want more of that... much more.

“You can just call me Con. Both of you,” Constantin answers, chuckling.

“Can you stay for a while?” I ask, noticing he’d brought three cups with him.

“Yes, I have about half an hour before I need to get back to the kitchen.” He climbs onto the bed and wriggles his way to sit between us. I shift over a little to make room. Then he holds his hands out for his coffee, which I dutifully pass to him and then reach for my own.

The dinner is absolutely incredible. Sofia and Florencio did an amazing job. Everything, from the vine tomato gazpacho to start, followed by roasted sea bass, to the merlot poached pears with cinnamon and vanilla for dessert. Everything was accompanied by the perfect wines. Constantin enquired what the red with the main course was, which started a conversation with Sofia in Spanish that I couldn’t follow well, though I managed to understand more than I would’ve a month ago. I heard Constantin mention his family, and Sofia kept up a volley of questions. I liked that the conversation was in both languages. I didn’t want them having to keep to English just for me, it would have made the dinner stilted and awkward. As it was, I was able to sit and enjoy listening to the cadence of the language, picking up words and trying to give them a context. When Florencio and Constantin talk Spanish with me, they take it slowly, which I appreciate. But trying my skills where there are multiple voices, all speaking naturally, is a challenge I enjoy.

I’m still at the stage where I have to take a phrase and translate it back into English in my head, which is what happens when Señora Bernat asks me a question.

“He oído que eres escritor. ¿Qué libros escribes?”I stall for a minute, working out how to describe the types of books I write in Spanish. I must look puzzled as she follows up with, “I’m sorry. Should I have asked in English?”

“I understood the question,” I reply. “But I’m not sure I have the words for the answer.”

She laughs a little, and I warm to her. Switching to English, which she is very proficient at speaking, we talk about books. I learn her name is Dominica, and she andSeñor Berat have three children all around my age. She’s a good dinner companion and I’m pleased to have the opportunity to talk to her. She doesn’t mind when I ask if I can try out some more Spanish with her, and is very gracious with my clumsy pronunciations.

I step back, cross, pivot, step, then glance over at where Señor Bernat and his wife are also dancing, and stumble. Florencio’s hands tighten and he doesn’t let me fall.

“What is it?” he whispers.

“Look at them. They’re so good.” They are very impressive dancers.

“They’re like sixty years old. They’ve probably been dancing for forty years. Of course they’re going to be good.”

He has a point. He puts his hand on my cheek, dragging my gaze back to him, and he gently strokes his fingers down my face. He leans closer, his lips almost touching my ear.

“The tango is a dance of passion. You shouldn’t have eyes for anyone else.”

I shiver and see a smile play across his lips.

“Shall we start again?” he murmurs.

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