Read Online The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club by Jessica Morrison - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Morrison
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six months. I could probably even get myself a fairly convincing tan if I hung out on the terrace at the right time every day.
The knocking starts again, louder, impatient. I know she’s trying to be friendly, but this is a bit much. “Coming.” I round the hall, catching sight of my extreme bedhead and raccoon eyes (courtesy of seventeen-dollar no-smudge designer mascara) in the small mirror. There’s the one good thing about being single again, I tell myself as I turn the key and swing open the door: I can look like total crap, and there’s no man around to see it.
Except the man at my door, that is. Broad-shouldered, skin the color of a nonfat latte, curly dark hair falling across his forehead. Looking out at me from under his hair are two utterly mesmerizing eyes, deep green like the proverbial grass on the other side. Not exactly Antonio Banderas—handsome, yes, though in an unpredictable, unfamiliar way—and a bit on the short side, but definitely . . . something.
Is this Andrea’s husband? But didn’t she say he worked in Chile? A brother maybe? Or, judging from his paint-splattered (and snug in all the right places) overalls, a handyman, perhaps. While I rack my morning-fogged brain for the Spanish word for “hello,” those impossibly green eyes skim from my wrinkled sweater and khakis to my lunatic fringe and quarterback makeup. I can feel a zit sprouting on my forehead as I stand here. A smile breaks on his face, and it is the most amazing smile I have ever seen this side of a movie screen . . . and then he starts laughing. Really loud. He stops only long enough to say something in Spanish that contains the word
Americana
and prompts him to shake his head at me as though he’s remembered some old joke, and then starts laughing again.
I might not speak the language, but I know when I’m being insulted. I cross my arms protectively, feeling more naked than I did when I thought I actually was, and force myself to look him in the eye. “Can I help you?” He might not know my words either, but my tone is unmistakable. His grin disappears. He spurts out more Spanish, maybe more insults or maybe an apology, and looks at me expectantly. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing yet another American has come to Argentina without knowing Spanish, so I stare at him and try to look unimpressed, hoping the expression translates. Cute or not, all I want him to think is that, whatever he’s saying or thinking, I couldn’t care less. Because at this point I couldn’t.
But he laughs again and shakes his head, the way you laugh at a small child who’s feigning a fit. Even his dark curls giggle at me. Before I can say something—something that surely would have been quick and witty and biting, which, even if it had been lost on him, would have given me no small amount of satisfaction—he turns and disappears down the spiral stairs. Even back inside, the heavy wood door slammed tight behind me, I’m pretty sure that’s him I can hear laughing down below.
Some welcome wagon. I don’t want to make a fuss, but I am paying to be here. Whatever the cultural differences, there’s no reason one can’t be polite. A little common courtesy—is that too much to ask? I’m beginning to realize why I’ve never traveled before. In a huff, I peel off my clothes, shower off a full day of travel, and shave my legs. In a huff I towel-dry, moisturize, and get dressed in a gauzy summer dress and flip-flops. In a huff, I put on mascara, lip gloss, and a light mist of perfume. In a huff, I repeatedly ram my hair dryer’s plug into the unaccommodatingly foreign electrical socket, giving myself a small shock and killing my hair dryer in the process. In a huff, I twist my damp hair into a loose bun. In a huff, I stomp out of the apartment, down the stairs, and up to the enormous double door with an intimidating bronze knocker that leads into the main part of the house. In a huff, I knock. And then, hearing
The knocking starts again, louder, impatient. I know she’s trying to be friendly, but this is a bit much. “Coming.” I round the hall, catching sight of my extreme bedhead and raccoon eyes (courtesy of seventeen-dollar no-smudge designer mascara) in the small mirror. There’s the one good thing about being single again, I tell myself as I turn the key and swing open the door: I can look like total crap, and there’s no man around to see it.
Except the man at my door, that is. Broad-shouldered, skin the color of a nonfat latte, curly dark hair falling across his forehead. Looking out at me from under his hair are two utterly mesmerizing eyes, deep green like the proverbial grass on the other side. Not exactly Antonio Banderas—handsome, yes, though in an unpredictable, unfamiliar way—and a bit on the short side, but definitely . . . something.
Is this Andrea’s husband? But didn’t she say he worked in Chile? A brother maybe? Or, judging from his paint-splattered (and snug in all the right places) overalls, a handyman, perhaps. While I rack my morning-fogged brain for the Spanish word for “hello,” those impossibly green eyes skim from my wrinkled sweater and khakis to my lunatic fringe and quarterback makeup. I can feel a zit sprouting on my forehead as I stand here. A smile breaks on his face, and it is the most amazing smile I have ever seen this side of a movie screen . . . and then he starts laughing. Really loud. He stops only long enough to say something in Spanish that contains the word
Americana
and prompts him to shake his head at me as though he’s remembered some old joke, and then starts laughing again.
I might not speak the language, but I know when I’m being insulted. I cross my arms protectively, feeling more naked than I did when I thought I actually was, and force myself to look him in the eye. “Can I help you?” He might not know my words either, but my tone is unmistakable. His grin disappears. He spurts out more Spanish, maybe more insults or maybe an apology, and looks at me expectantly. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing yet another American has come to Argentina without knowing Spanish, so I stare at him and try to look unimpressed, hoping the expression translates. Cute or not, all I want him to think is that, whatever he’s saying or thinking, I couldn’t care less. Because at this point I couldn’t.
But he laughs again and shakes his head, the way you laugh at a small child who’s feigning a fit. Even his dark curls giggle at me. Before I can say something—something that surely would have been quick and witty and biting, which, even if it had been lost on him, would have given me no small amount of satisfaction—he turns and disappears down the spiral stairs. Even back inside, the heavy wood door slammed tight behind me, I’m pretty sure that’s him I can hear laughing down below.
Some welcome wagon. I don’t want to make a fuss, but I am paying to be here. Whatever the cultural differences, there’s no reason one can’t be polite. A little common courtesy—is that too much to ask? I’m beginning to realize why I’ve never traveled before. In a huff, I peel off my clothes, shower off a full day of travel, and shave my legs. In a huff I towel-dry, moisturize, and get dressed in a gauzy summer dress and flip-flops. In a huff, I put on mascara, lip gloss, and a light mist of perfume. In a huff, I repeatedly ram my hair dryer’s plug into the unaccommodatingly foreign electrical socket, giving myself a small shock and killing my hair dryer in the process. In a huff, I twist my damp hair into a loose bun. In a huff, I stomp out of the apartment, down the stairs, and up to the enormous double door with an intimidating bronze knocker that leads into the main part of the house. In a huff, I knock. And then, hearing
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