Dish by dish, the server unveiled the contents of each platter. Fresh strawberries. Whipped cream. Huevos motulenos with plantains and peas. Their aromas mingled together into one fruity, spicy fragrance. Larissa’s stomach rose in her throat.
“Is there coffee?” she interrupted before the man could unveil the final dish, which she was pretty certain would be bacon. The greasy scent would send her right over the edge.
“I can serve myself,” Larissa continued when he reached for the thermal pot.
Her upright quotient was nearing its end, and she didn’t want to waste what little standing ability she had left on some elaborate presentation. Scribbling her room number on the bottom of the bill, she thrust the paper in the man’s hand and hoped the generous tip would balance out her curt behavior.
“Please tell the chef everything looks wonderful.” She swallowed hard to get the words out. “Exactly as advertised.”
“I’m glad you think so,” a new voice replied. Before she could reply, the man from her memories strolled into the room. Tall, dark and way too crisp-looking.
Her vague memories didn’t do him nearly enough justice. Broad shoulders. A hard, lean body. Her fingertips tingled recalling the feel of his torso all too clearly. Especially the way her palm spread against the taut muscles.
It was his face she’d forgotten. Hidden by the distraction of sad eyes was a face marked by character. A strong jaw, a prominent nose. Skin the color of burnished gold. It was a rugged, masculine face, carved to capture both attention and respect.
He greeted her with a polite nod. “Buenos dias, Señorita Boyd.”
Dammit, she’d forgotten his name. He wasn’t the kind of man a person forgot, either. Maybe if she smiled brightly enough, she could fake her way through the conversation until it came to her. “Buenos dias. How are you doing this morning?”
“I am fine, señorita. A more important question is, how are you?”
“Right as rain,” she lied.
He arched his brow, proof she wasn’t fooling anyone, but chose to turn his attention to the room service cart. Larissa couldn’t help but notice the server’s nervousness regarding the inspection. Señor Whoever-He-Was must run a tight ship.
“You’re having the bridal breakfast, I see,” he said finally.
“Yes, I am.”
“Interesting choice. Did you mean to?”
An odd question, although she’d been kicking herself over its appearance herself. She waited until he’d dismissed the server before asking, “What do you mean?”
“Only that considering your circumstances, I’m surprised you’re interested in having the full bridal morning experience.”
Was he referring to her hangover or the fact she was no longer a bride? His diplomatic description made it hard to tell.
He uncovered the bacon. A big mistake. Larissa started to gag.
“I’m looking forward to it,” she replied, swallowing her stomach back into place. Easier than swallowing her pride, apparently. “No sense letting a good meal go to waste.”
“I applaud your attitude. Personally, I wouldn’t be able to look at food, let alone eat so much.”
Okay, so they were talking about her hangover. “I have an iron stomach.”
Again, he raised his brow, unconvinced. They both knew she hammered herself into oblivion last night. Only a fool would insist on pretending otherwise. Call her a fool then. And would have to salvage pride where she could. Especially considering her only clear memory from last night involved falling against that hard, lean chest.
“You have a far better constitution than I do,” he remarked. “Cream and sugar? Or do you prefer your coffee black?”
What she would prefer would be if he—and the breakfast cart—left her alone so she could collapse. “Black, please.”
“I have to warn you, Mexican coffee is brewed stronger than American. Many of our guests are taken by surprise.”
“I’m willing to take the chance.” Anything to hurry him out of her room. What was he doing here anyway? Her fingertips started to tingle again. Oh, no. Maybe she did come on to him, and he was here because he thought she wanted some kind of Mexican fling.
“While you are here, you must try our version of café de olla. We brew the coffee with cinnamon and piloncillo. It’s sweet, but not overly so. The secret is in using the right pot.”
“Uh-huh.” She was far more interested in getting through this cup of coffee. Those stainless steel covers didn’t do much to contain aromas, did they? His nattering on about brown sugar didn’t help. Between the two, her stomach was pretty much ready to revolt. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear all his talk was on purpose, to test how long she could hold on before cracking.
“Do all your guests get such personal service from the general manager, or am I one of the lucky ones?” Assuming he was the general manager; she could be promoting him in her head. Drat, why couldn’t she remember his name?
His chuckle as she snatched the cup from his hands was low and sultry, making her stomach list. Well, either the sound or the champagne. “I suppose you could consider yourself lucky. Normally, our wedding director meets with our bridal guests.”
“But you don’t have one,” she replied. Another piece of last night’s conversation slipping into place.
The coffee smelled horrible. Apparently, the resort considered strong a synonym for burnt. Holding her breath, Larissa lapped at the hot liquid. The acidy taste burned her esophagus before joining the war in her stomach.
Check that, the coffee was still debating whether it wanted to join. She put the cup on the desk.
Meanwhile, her dark-suited guest was helping himself to a cup. “That’s correct,” he said. “We are in between coordinators at the moment. Which is why I’m making a point of working with our VIP customers personally. I want to make sure their experience with us is exactly as they anticipated.”
“Little late there,” Larissa replied. This trip already wasn’t what she expected.
Realizing his faux pas, the manager cleared his throat. “That is why I decided to visit you first. I noticed—”
Carlos! His name rushed back. Unfortunately, so did the coffee. Larissa grabbed a nearby waste bucket.
And promptly threw up.
“ARE YOU FEELING better yet?” The voice on the other side of the door rolled far more gently than Larissa’s stomach.
“Yes,” she managed to croak. After her embarrassing display with the waste bucket, she wasn’t about to admit anything else.
Happy Wedding Day to me. Her big day. The moment she’d dreamed about her whole life, when the world would see that she, little Larissa Boyd, found her Prince Charming. No more pinning sequins on someone else’s wedding gown or standing in the sidelines.
Never, in all her dreams, did she see herself sprawled on Spanish tiles with her head propped against a walk-in shower.