Carlos busied himself around the grill with a scowl on his face. There was nothing left to do—everything was ready, just waiting for the meat to hit the grate. Still, he had to keep himself occupied with some pointless activity. He was seething with frustration over the fact that his friend wasn’t allowed to attend the party. The building community had made it crystal clear: no outsiders were welcome at the New Year’s Eve celebration.
Naturally, it was María José who had screeched the loudest about how people were free to decide where and with whom they wanted to ring in the New Year. If someone wanted to be with friends, they could host them at home. If they preferred the communal courtyard, they shouldn’t invite anyone. Technically, no one could be stopped from having guests in their own apartment—but in that case, the host and their visitors were banned from the courtyard festivities.
“Jealous old harpy,” Carlos thought bitterly. It was obvious María José, bitter after being left high and dry, didn’t want her friend’s growing connection with Esteban to turn into something physical. And God knew the old man missed that physical connection badly. But he was holding his ground. He wouldn’t make peace with María José until he’d regained some self-respect.
The residents trickled in, families settling around the pool. Though gathering in the courtyard was part of their daily routine, now they stood around awkwardly on the warm tiles. Bernard was pleased to note they’d nailed the outfit choice—at least, in his opinion, they looked better than any of the other men. Especially Günter, whose growing belly had already popped open one shirt button above his navel. Bernard nearly burst out laughing when Rob and Pauline arrived. Judging by their outfits, they must’ve had something entirely different in mind while getting dressed. Pauline wore a sparkling champagne-colored cocktail dress, while Rob sported a shiny, pearlescent silk suit. The whole gathering froze for a second, silently gawking at the overdressed couple. Pauline beamed. That was the whole point—she wanted everyone to see they were no ordinary couple. Noble French and American blood ran through their veins. And no matter how trivial the occasion, they would show up in style. But it wasn’t them who delivered the real blow—it was the little girls.
When Emily and Vanda stepped out from behind their proud mother, Bernard broke into a cold sweat. The girls’ matching dresses were almost exact replicas of the two men’s outfits. Emily’s dress was burgundy on top and cream on the bottom; Vanda’s was the opposite—cream on top and burgundy below. Both had dainty, striped cream-and-burgundy ribbons around their waists. The only thing missing was the ribbon on Bernard and Noud’s carefully chosen looks.
“I told you so,” Noud whispered in Bernard’s ear, then quietly slipped away.
Adrian was about to make a few snarky jokes about the weird accidental matching, but Dajana was faster—she dug her nails into his palm. His pained gasp went unnoticed.
“So this is what you meant?” Rob asked in a flat tone.
“Have you lost your mind?” Pauline hissed through clenched teeth.
Her face flushed crimson, and her fists clenched with helpless rage. She could’ve kicked those two clowns for stealing the spotlight from the girls. Everyone thought it was adorable that the Dutch guys had “matched” with Emily and Vanda—more so than her original plan.
Rob gave a grudging shrug and grabbed a drink from the makeshift bar set up on a plastic table. He took a sip of the spiced gin he’d brought. The flavor had barely touched his tongue when Victoria appeared. The sight of the curvy mother in a red lace dress with a plunging neckline made him forget to breathe. She looked visibly tipsy and upset, but it didn’t matter—her full, nearly exposed breasts transported the American dad into another universe. Everything else faded away. His eyes were glued to those perfectly round breasts. His lips parted slightly, and the glass in his hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy.