I grab a couple of ice cubes from the freezer and drop them into the Stanley Cup, which is full of water. As I walk from the I grabbed a couple of ice cubes from the freezer and dropped them into the Stanley Cup, which was full of water. As I walked from the freezer to the thermos, I felt my fingers sinking into the ice. It was unbearably hot, hotter than it had ever been at that time of year. I wondered how Ashley and Cindy were doing in Cancún. I had missed the Spring Break trip there because it was my parents' wedding anniversary, and someone had to stay and take care of little Tommy.

Early that morning, I had taken Tommy to the YMCA, where he was signed up for a basketball camp that kept him busy well into the afternoon. Meanwhile, I had strolled around the mall, drunk my first iced tea of the day, and read a book to kill time. But that day, I had to head home earlier than usual because Osvaldo was coming.

Osvaldo was my parents’ new gardener. He had come to the country, crossing the border on a terrifying journey, as my mother had told me. He had walked through the desert and, on a lucky night, managed to cross unnoticed. Osvaldo was from Colombia, and his family lived in a small village near the jungle. Life there was harsh, as drug trafficking controlled everything, and the only chance for his family had been to escape that hell. Now, he lived with his uncle, who had been in the country for a long time. While he was waiting to sort out his papers and stay legally, he worked in the neighborhood doing gardening jobs. I vaguely remembered that he had a background in medicine.

My mother adored Osvaldo. She always said he was very polite and hardworking. The other day, he had helped her change a flat tire on her way home. My father, however, was a different story. He was old-fashioned and generally didn’t like people from abroad. Still, Osvaldo’s rates were reasonable for the work he did. The other day, he had broken one of the decorative garden gnomes while trimming a tree, and my father had gotten furious, calling him a savage who didn’t know how to do things properly. To be honest, it was surprising to see how much strength he had, handling all his work tools, and watching him eat, you would have thought he had never seen a sandwich before. But he seemed like a good guy.

I was in a terrible mood. The previous night, I hadn’t been able to sleep. The day after my parents had left, the air conditioning had broken, and it felt like I was living in a greenhouse. I tossed and turned all night. The sheets were soaked with sweat. I had even tried to relax, but the vibrator’s batteries had died, leaving me not only wide awake like a cat at night but also unsatisfied, like a woman whose husband thought hugs were a form of cardio.

I took a sip of water, quenched my thirst, and looked out into the garden. There was Osvaldo, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his enormous hand while running his fingers through his unruly black curls. When he saw me, he walked over and said:

"Miss Smith, I’d like to ask for permission to take my shirt off. I know it’s not quite proper, but it’s really hot, and I still have a lot of work ahead."

"Yeah, sure, don’t worry," I replied. What else could I say? Honestly, if he hadn’t been there, I would probably have been the first to strip down. He was melting under the sun while working hard.

It wasn’t too bad on the porch, with the shade and a slight breeze brushing against my face, cooling me down. So, I decided to grab a book and sit there until it was time to pick up Tommy. However, I wasn’t prepared for what I found when I returned.

When I stepped back onto the porch, I saw Osvaldo’s shirt draped over the railing. It had been white, but between the sweat and the dirt from the garden, it had turned a yellowish-brown. I lifted my head and looked toward the garden, and there he was. His tanned skin gleamed with sweat under the sun. From behind, his broad back looked like the wall he had to climb to reach this country. Osvaldo was tall, around 6'2", and while he seemed slim, without his shirt, he looked all muscle.

I could see his muscles flex as he dug the earth, moving the roses as my mother had asked before she left. Was this the same Osvaldo who had been coming to my parents' house all year? Where had he been hiding? Anyway, I needed to get back to my book before my mind wandered into places it shouldn’t.

A little while later, a shout startled me. It was Osvaldo. He had cut himself while trimming the bushes that kept the nosy Clyburns from spying on my mother while she sunbathed in the garden. His right hand was bleeding badly—a deep cut on his finger. I ran over to see what had happened, and he asked me to bring the first aid kit to clean the wound and avoid infection.

Since Osvaldo was undocumented, he didn’t have insurance, so we couldn’t go to a hospital to get him treated. To make matters worse, the wound was on his good hand, his right one, so he couldn’t take care of it himself. Then he said, “You have to sew it up for me.”

“Me? I have no idea how to do that!”

“It’s easy. Haven’t you ever sewn anything before?”

Well, actually, yes. When I was little, I had spent mornings with my old Nana, sewing tablecloths. It had been her hobby, and every piece of furniture in her house had one she had made. But I had never sewn a person before.

After holding the wound for a while, the bleeding seemed to slow down. Still, if I didn’t stitch it up, he could bleed out right there. I grabbed his palm to get better control, took out the needle and thread, and started sewing. Osvaldo grunted a little, but he seemed tough and composed. That calmed me down, too, seeing him barely react to the pain as I passed the needle through his finger.

His hand was huge. I thought that if he had wanted to, he could have wrapped his whole hand around my waist. It was rough from all his hard work, and there was dirt from the garden under his nails. Still, they looked well cared for, almost beautiful, like a map of his life—a wonderful person who had endured so much hardship.

In just a few minutes, I had finished sewing him up. I had never felt so relieved. He praised my work, and I told him he had earned a break. I invited him inside for a snack and a cold drink. Before we went in, he mentioned that he didn’t have another shirt. Seeing the state of his, I told him it didn’t matter, and I would grab one of my father’s old ones for him to wear inside.

As I walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, I found Osvaldo examining his hand. I could see the dried blood between his fingers, and some had dripped onto his abs, which looked like six solid blocks of stone with a patch of hair growing just above his waistline. He was also stained with blood. I poured some iced tea from the fridge and handed him a glass while he slipped on one of my father’s old shirts—the kind he wore when tinkering in the garage with his woodworking projects when he had nothing else to do.

I was surprised by him. Though he still struggled with English, he was quite articulate. He told me that back in Colombia, he had studied to be a pediatrician and that he loved children. He missed his family a lot and talked to them every night from the couch at his uncle’s house. He didn’t know anyone here and felt pretty lonely. He worked every day of the week and, after finishing at our house, he was heading to mow the Harrisons’ lawn—a sweet elderly couple who lived at the end of the street. Almost all the money he earned went to his family, except for a portion he gave his uncle to help with household expenses.

After talking for a while, Osvaldo mentioned feeling a bit dizzy. Understandable, given how much blood he had lost. I thought of offering him a slice of cake I had in the fridge. The previous week had been my father’s birthday, the same day he had married my mother. They had been together for 25 years, and they had made it work. I wondered if I would ever find someone like my dad. In just two years, I would be the same age my mom had been when she got married.

After all the commotion, I was hungry too, so I cut two small slices. It was a three-layer chocolate cake, my favorite. My dad had a big sweet tooth too, and Osvaldo accepted it gratefully, looking like he was finally regaining his natural, rich mocha complexion that had paled a bit after his injury. While eating the cake, Osvaldo stared at me intently. He seemed puzzled and then suddenly burst out laughing. I had no idea what was going on.

"Your face! You’ve got chocolate all over it!"

How embarrassing, I thought. "Where exactly?" I asked, wiping my face clumsily, like searching for the TV remote under a couch.

Osvaldo kept laughing, watching as I turned redder, frantically rubbing my face.

“Hold on a second. Let me get it for you.”

He stood up and walked toward me. With each step, I felt smaller. The man was huge. I felt like an ant beside him, and honestly, he intimidated me. He got so close that I thought even a sheet of paper couldn’t have fit between us. He cupped my head with his left hand, holding me still like a baseball, pressed a little so I wouldn’t move, and gently wiped my cheek with his thumb.

The air suddenly felt heavier, and the temperature rose again. I couldn’t think straight, but as he finished, he let out a little chuckle and said: "Ya está," he mumbled in Spanish.

He was so close to me that I could feel his warm breath against my face. I looked into his eyes with desire, and he seemed to feel the same. Suddenly, his lips pressed against mine and we melted into a deep kiss. At last, I could hold him in my hands, his body firm and strong as if sculpted by angels.

With force, he grabbed me by the waist and laid me on the kitchen island while his lips wandered across my skin. I struggled to pull off my shirt as his hands moved with restless urgency. He seemed almost possessed by longing, unable to think, only to act.

When he finally freed himself of his clothes, I could sense how much he yearned for me. Just a touch was enough to make me anticipate what was to come. He lifted my legs gently, holding me as if nothing else existed. My whole body trembled with the intensity of the moment, every heartbeat echoing between us.

“I want to feel you completely,” I whispered, looking into his eyes.

Without a word, he leaned over me, moving closer with each breath. The more he held me, the more our bodies clung together—hot, trembling, and covered in sweat despite the warm air in the house. He seemed entranced, carried away by passion, while I felt like a toy in his hands, powerless to resist, yet unwilling to let go.

Every movement made me shiver. I gripped him tighter, silently begging for more, and he responded with a raw intensity that left me breathless. Soon, his body grew tense, and he looked at me with an expression of release and surrender.

Exhausted, he collapsed on top of me like someone who had crossed a desert, his arms heavy as I tried to catch my breath.

“This was a mistake, Miss Smith. It should never have happened,” he murmured.

But it had. Quickly, Osvaldo put his clothes back on and rushed out. I bet he didn’t know what awaited him once he left the house. The truth was, neither did I—I had never imagined Spring Break would begin this way.