In the Age of Love and Chocolate (Birthright #3)(12)

“Un avión?” My Spanish had atrophied in the months since I had left Casa Marquez. “Wait, isn’t that a plane?”

“Yes, Anya, I am coming to you. I cannot let you start your business with subpar cacao. In Chiapas, it is now five a.m. Luna thinks I can get to New York City by afternoon. You will arrange a truck to come meet me?”

“Of course. But Theo, a cargo plane is very expensive. I can’t let you and your family absorb such a cost.”

“I have money. I am a rich chocolate baron of Mexico. I will do this for you in exchange for”—he paused to come up with a figure—“50 percent of your first week’s profits.”

“Fifty percent is kind of high, Theo. Besides, shouldn’t you have negotiated this up front? You’ve already told Luna to get the plane, no?”

“You speak the truth, Anya. How about 15 percent of your profits until I’m paid back for the cost of the plane and the fuel and the cacao?”

“Theo, now you’re asking for too little. My business could flop, and then you’ll get nothing.”

“I believe in you. I taught you everything you know, did I not? Plus, it gives me a good chance to see New York and I can help you, if you like. I would not mind to see you. Is your hair grown out?”

I told him that he’d have to see when he got here. “Theo, buen viaje.”

“Very good, Anya. You have not forgotten completely your Spanish.”

* * *

I did not return to the apartment, as I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. I sat in my office, in my father’s chair, the same one in which he’d been murdered, and I brooded. What if the plane crashed? What if I failed and everyone laughed at me? I was thinking of Sophia Bitter, Yuji Ono, Simon Green, and, obviously, Fats. What if they were right to laugh? What if my idea had been stupid and what if I was a stupid girl for believing I could build something new? What if Mr. Kipling had been right, too? What did I know about running a business? What if the cacao arrived, we made the drinks, and still no one came? What if people did come, but they hated the cacao and refused to accept it as chocolate? What if I had to fire the people I had just hired? What would they do for work? For that matter, what would I do for a job? I had a high school equivalency diploma, no college prospects, and a criminal record. What if I ended up broke? Who would pay for Natty’s college? What if I lost the apartment? What if, at eighteen years old, I had ruined my entire life? Where would I go from here? I was totally alone and ugly with silly, short hair.

What if I had told the boy I loved to leave and it ended up being for nothing?

I didn’t talk about Win that much, even or especially with Scarlet, but I still missed him. Of course I did. At times like this, I felt the loss of him especially intensely.

It had been three and a half months since we broke up for good, and this was how I had come to understand what had happened.

I was not innocent. I knew what I had done. I knew why I was wrong (and why he was wrong, too). We had met in high school so the chance of us ending up together in the long run had probably been pretty slim, even if we hadn’t been star-crossed from the start.

Yes, I had made my choices. And choosing this club meant not choosing Win. I had sacrificed him to a cause I believed to be greater. But, dear God, if you have the idea that letting Win leave had cost me nothing, you are mistaken. I know I am an infuriating character, that I have a tendency to sound stoic and dry. More than most people, it is my nature to conceal what is most sacred in my heart. But though my feelings may be concealed, it does not mean they aren’t felt.

I missed Win’s smell (pine, citrus), his hands (soft palms, long fingers), his mouth (velvet, clean), and even his hats. I wanted to talk to him, to run ideas by him, to tease him, and to kiss him. I missed having someone love me, not because they were related to me, but because they thought I was irresistible, unique, and definitely worth the trouble.

And so, I could not sleep.

* * *

The cacao arrived around two o’clock, and Theo with it.

“Your hair is so ugly!”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“I despise it.” He circled me. “Why must girls torture their hair so?”

“It was a business decision,” I told him. “And if you go on about it much longer, you’re in danger of hurting my feelings.”

“Anya, have we been apart so long that you have forgotten what a fool I am? I should be ignored. Eh, maybe the hair, maybe it is not so bad. Maybe it is growing on me. I hope it is growing on you.” He kissed me on my cheeks. “The place looks handsome at least. Let us see the kitchen.”

When Theo and I brought in the sacks of raw cacao, the staff cheered and Lucy even kissed Theo. He was very kissable, that boy. She made him the signature drink, which was still a work in progress. Theo tasted it, swallowed slowly, smiled politely at Lucy, and set the glass on the counter. Then he pulled me aside and whispered in my ear, “Anya, this is no good. You can’t serve this.”

I explained to Theo that no American mixologist had experience making drinks with cacao on account of cacao being banned. We were doing the best we could under the circumstances.

“I am serious. This tastes like dirt. Cacao requires more finesse than this. She needs to be teased, to be provoked. I am here. Let me help you.” He rolled up his sleeves and put on an apron.