Wouldn’t you know Joaquin was a registered nurse? He fussed over my face in the villa’s glamorous kitchen, clucking as he dabbed gently at my nose while Colin whipped tequila, limes, and Triple Sec into hair-singeing margaritas.
“It’s not broken,” he announced.
“I know,” I said. “I’m fine. Really. Listen, could someone at least hand me my shorts? Any shorts?”
Doing me a favor, if not the one I’d requested, Colin handed me a margarita, then plopped his round butt on the tiled counter. “What happened to your face, Dickie?” he asked, eyes wide. As if Joaquin and I hadn’t each already taken it in his turn to describe the accident in detail.
I took a gulp of blended tequila. Coughed half of it back into my glass because Colin’s margaritas taste like turpentine, then hobbled into the living
