Mi Amor

I already had six bouquets of stargazer lilies in my shopping cart and was examining the seventh when I realized that this sexy Latin guy was cruising me. Though I am undeniably cute -- my friends kid me that I look like I just stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch ad -- it’s not me; it’s the Publix. When they built this new grocery in a funny corner of South Beach, it became cruise central. And no, I don’t mean those big ocean liners, though you can see them a few blocks away.

I looked up, and he was standing right by my wagon, sniffing. When he saw me looking at him, he got all embarrassed and said, “Sorry, they just smell so luscious.” He had the slightest Spanish accent and a baritone voice that made me go all mushy inside.

He wore a dark green Ralph Lauren polo shirt that showed off his deep tan; faded, butt-molded jeans; and scuffed cowboy boots. Even though I was in the middle of a crisis -- finding bunches of lilies for a party my client was holding in less than two hours -- I had to stop and flirt. A boy’s got to do what a boy’s got to do. “And they’re gorgeous,” I said. We made direct eye contact, and I smiled.

I have a killer smile. I suffered through two years of orthodontia for it, and since I kissed my first boy at fourteen, I’ve been unleashing it on sexy guys.

From smiling, these guys and I proceed to flirting. And then to bed. That’s the way I liked my relationships: quick, dirty, and fun. I was twenty-six years old, and I lived in the biggest gay candy store in the world. Why tie myself down with jelly beans when there were licorice, gumballs, and chocolate drops out there?

I was moving toward sealing the deal with my Latin lover when Jean-Jacques Valentin roared up. He may be my best friend in all the world, and I appreciate the way he pitches in to help me out when I’m on the brink of disaster, but his timing sucks. He’s a six-two flaming Haitian queen, and sometimes he comes on too strong.

“I found these darling dishes in the kitchenware aisle,” Jean-Jacques said, holding up six pottery bowls in a celadon green. “If you’ve got some Styrofoam and some wire, problem solved!”

He skidded to a stop next to my cart and looked from me to the sexy cowboy, who said, “Well, see you around,” and pushed off.

I elbowed Jean-Jacques and whispered fiercely, “That was my after-dinner treat you just chased away!”

“Oh, honey, there’ll be six more treats for you at the party tonight. Get over your gorgeous blond self.”

At the mention of the word party, I zapped back to earth. After four years of organizing events at trendy South Beach clubs, working my way up from passing out flyers on the beach to hosting every rap star, B-list actress, hunk of the moment, and fashion-victim heiress, I’d begun organizing private events outside the club circuit.

This party was the launch for a new condo on West Avenue, on one of the few tiny pieces of land that doesn’t already have a high-rise on it. I’d been introduced to the owners by my old friend, Vladislav Solonenko, or Vlad the Impaler as I started to call him the first time he butt-fucked me with his monster dick. Vlad’s an investor, with his hands in many different South Beach ventures. Some are frightened that he’s part of the Russian mafia, but I’ve seen him cry over TV commercials.

My job: take an empty lot littered with trash and surrounded by a chain-link fence, and create a South Seas fantasy that embodied the developer’s concept: the Balinese, a teak-and-tapa-cloth condo-hotel for the ultrarich. And I’d been doing a damn good job until my flower delivery arrived, and I discovered that someone had forgotten to include water with the floral centerpieces. The result? You don’t want to know. Hence the quick dash to Publix.

We grabbed the flowers and those darling little bowls, and as we hurried to finish every last detail, I forgot all about my Latin lover. That is, until later that night, when he and I stood eye to eye on opposite sides of a scale model of the hotel, two low-rise towers surrounded by lush landscaping -- all in papier-mâché, of course. For once, I was speechless. Fortunately, he wasn’t.

“Looks like the lilies did solve your problem,” he said.

He cleaned up nicely. In place of his work clothes, he wore a beautifully fitted tuxedo with narrow lapels that accentuated his broad shoulders and his narrow waist. His white tux shirt was immaculately pressed and shone like a spotlight. Most men can’t carry off a bow tie, but he could -- in black silk, and hand-tied to boot. “I’m Javier Marisco,” he said, sticking out his hand.

So much for the idea that he was an ordinary workman. I knew from Vlad that Javier was one of the most successful small developers on the beach, and that Vlad had invested in one of his condo conversions. “Adam Beller,” I said, reaching toward him. Our hands met over a papier-mâché palm tree. His was rough, sun-burned, and calloused, but his grip was strong. I felt like someone had just plugged me into an electric socket.

“Party planner to the stars,” Javier said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All of it true. Except for that story about the men’s room at Club Deco. That’s a total fabrication.”

“Ah, and that’s my favorite story,” Javier said. “I’m disappointed.”

“You’re a flirt, is what you are.”

“And you’re not?”

We were still holding hands, and our gazes were locked on each other. “Perhaps,” I said. “I’ve been called worse.”

He released his grip. “You’ll have to tell me all your secrets.”

“Please. At least buy me dinner first.”

“I’ll do that. How about after the party?”

I ran through a mental checklist at hyper speed. The developer had already given his welcome speech, and we’d finished all the black bowfin caviar, the champagne, and almost all the divine pastries baked specially for me by an elderly French woman whose name I guard more fiercely than the list of men I’ve slept with.

At least half the guests had left, and the rest would probably filter away within the next half hour, depending on how fast the Guatemalan valets could bring their luxury vehicles around from the empty lot down the street. I could trust Jean-Jacques with the cleanup. Vlad was hosting an after-party at Privé, but he’d never miss me. “Sure,” I said. “Give me about an hour?”

“I’ll be waiting.” He smiled and turned as one of the bitchiest female real estate brokers on the beach grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away to someone he just had to meet.