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Clare London - Media Naranja (with Jordan Castillo Price)
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Love is not for the faint of heart. Mild-mannered Trevor accompanies his Gran Elsie on holiday at a luxury resort in Majorca, hoping for some rest and relaxation under the dazzling Spanish sun. But they didn’t count on arriving in the middle of Flamenco Week. Instead of massages and siestas, they find noisy builders and tacky theme parties.
Trevor has a choice to make: put up, or shut up—and finding the nerve to complain to the staff, the mysterious Chance and imperturbable Hunter, is far from easy. But the impromptu assertiveness training comes in handy when he catches the eye of the manager’s son, Alejo.
There’s someone for everyone—even Trevor—providing he finds the courage to stand up for what he wants.
Flamenco Week! Food! Festivities! Fun! The vinyl banner sagged in the middle. Either it had never been hung properly to begin with, or the blazing Majorcan sun had caused it to start melting. Or maybe it had finally begun to collapse under the weight of all its exclamation points. Trevor eyed it as he headed into the lobby of Sol Maduro to check in. His initial thrill over the prospect of seeing some real Spanish flamenco was tempered by the fact that his Gran could hardly be expected to recuperate among all the clapping and stomping and strumming and tight pants.
Not that she probably noticed the tight pants. At least, he didn’t care to think of her noticing them. She was his gran, after all. He was the one should be interested in all that. Pity he was also the one without the nerve to act on it.
The front desk was empty and the lobby was still, save for an oscillating fan that creaked slowly, side to side, and a sheet of paper that fluttered each time it passed. Trevor had expected a clerk, or maybe the manager. Instead there was only a photograph, a large, sun-faded poster on the wall that showed three bronzed, smiling men of various ages, with the proclamation beneath it, Roberto and his sons welcome you to an experience of Majorca you will never forget!
“Hello?” he called, hoping for Roberto. Or one of his sons. The fan droned in response.
Gran and her old cohort Vera would be fine in the air-conditioned cab, he supposed. But even the two-hour flight journey from Gatwick seemed to have taken a lot out of Gran, and he was eager to get her settled in to the villa.
“Hello?” A bit louder, this time. The paper fluttered again. From the patio, a gull shrilled.
Trevor scanned the front desk for a note that might tell him where the staff had stepped off to, or maybe a bell to ring. The fluttering paper was the middle page of a brochure for Sol Maduro’s new day spa, spread open on the desk. He took a closer look. It showed a row of middle-aged female models prone on massage tables, smiling faces turned to one side, with towels wrapped around their hair, and round, smooth stones on their backs.
That was what they’d come to Majorca to experience: relaxation. Not flamenco.
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