KISS IT BETTER

I drove my husband to hospital this morning. He tore one of the crossed ligaments in his knee during a ski race a couple of months ago, and after dozens of sessions of physiotherapy, the doctor finally decided surgery is the best option if he wants to continue to ski, play tennis, water-ski, etc. It’s the first time Mr Prescott has ever been admitted into hospital, which is somewhat surprising considering he’s played some pretty intense sports in his life. But this morning, my poor sweetie has to have knee surgery.

I’m something of a veteran when it comes to surgery. I’m not talking anything major (touch wood...), just a fair share of close encounters with surgical instruments. I’ve had my appendix out, two C-sections, and a couple of other little tiresome interventions. I’ve also always been somewhat accident prone, and seem to have a knack for getting maximum damage from the most insignificant falls. I broke my leg in two places sledging down Verbier’s baby slope at a snail’s pace. I broke my arm playing “What time is it Mr. Wolf?”. I broke my left foot running upstairs (I didn’t want to miss ER’s season finale!). I tore the ligaments in my right ankle lugging my washing basket downstairs. I exploded my left shoulder falling off my horse (one of my more spectacular falls!). Basically, I know how painful certain boo-boos can be. I know about general anaesthetics, allergic reactions to morphine, and, well, post surgical pain! Just thinking about him waking up in a few hours time makes me wince. So I’ll be rushing back to the hospital later today, lips puckered, ready to kiss him better!

In the meantime, I’m leaving you with a “kiss it better” excerpt from my romantic comedy, “Mucho Caliente!”, which is set in Ibiza. In this scene, Gemma and her friends Celeste and Laura are on board a sailing boat with Latino superstar Emilio Caliente and his band. Everyone wants to go and spend a couple of hours at some natural mud-baths, with the exception of Gemma who finds the idea quite unpalatable. Eventually however, Gemma is spared the gloopy experience when poor Emilio suffers a painful encounter with a bucketful of jellyfish. Gemma’s maternal instincts kick in, with somewhat steamy results!

I hope this excerpt makes you smile! And I hope my husband’s surgery goes well...

***

Lying on the deck, with Emilio stretched out beside me, his eyes closed, his eyelashes shading half his face, I shudder as my twisted mind concludes that the polished skin one obtains after marinating in this natural cesspool is the result of direct contact with an amoeba festival with the munchies. But then again, maybe my aversion to anything less than squeaky-clean stems from prolonged and repeated contact with Richard’s pristine Swissness. Maybe it’s time to get my nails dirty, to imagine how my skin will feel to Emilio when he runs his fingers down my spine after a muddy rub-a-dub.
“Hola, guapa,” says Emilio softly, sleepily, in a voice that immediately transports me faraway from muddy microorganisms with fervent appetites, to a place where a burnished sunset warms the golden sand. There we are, lying together, bathed in the flattering light of the late afternoon sun, sipping something exotic and colourful. I know how it’s supposed to be. I’ve seen the movie more than once. I want to touch his biscuit-coloured skin, to tickle the tiny, sun bleached fuzzy hairs that curl so adorably in the small of his back. I want to lick the salty deposits that decorate his body like diaphanous lace.
He opens his eyes and smiles at me. I pretend not to see the little trickle of drool he hastily wipes on the towel. He may find it threatening to his image. I find it reassuring. Somehow, it restores the balance of power between us.
“Ready to get really, really dirty?” he says, wrinkling his nose to the max.
Oh God! Where has my stomach gone this time? Overboard! Could someone please go and retrieve it?
Then he goes and spoils everything.
“Hey, Philip, quit showing off with ropes. Kirsten’s an expert at tying men in knots. Literally.” Emilio props himself up onto one elbow, waggles his eyebrows and heaves one of those horrendous, deep throated haw-haw-haw laughs, the kind typical of a man trying to let his buddies know how much testosterone lies beneath his underpants. I knew it! He’s slept with her. Or something.
I’m emotionally seasick.
Testosterone levels on board soar as Jorge, David and Philip hoist the flags in frat-style camaraderie. Big belly laughs ensue. Haw-hawity-haw.
Maybe she’s done them all.
“Emilio! You naughty boy,” says Kirsten, tossing her hair, getting up, grabbing a bucket of water and rushing towards him. Nothing wobbles as she sashays towards us. Amazing, really.
Even more amazing is that Kirsten has failed to notice four gelatinous creatures with trailing tentacles floating in the bucket, who seem to fancy tasting Emilio’s salty deposits as much as I do. Kirsten realises her mistake just as she empties the contents all over him. She screams. I manage to jump out of the way and, thankfully, am only blasted with half a bucket of lukewarm seawater. Emilio on the other hand, his eyes screwed up tightly, his body braced in expectation of pleasant refreshment, is in for a shock.
Four jellyfish land on top of him.
I don’t know what Emilio says as he shoots to his feet, but it doesn’t sound good. Kirsten stands there, holding the bucket, wide-eyed, open mouthed, horrified at what she’s done.
“Emilio! Shit, I’m sorry. Let me see…Oh my God!” she shrieks as angry looking welts flare up on his chest and back. “Quick, does anyone have any cream?”
I almost smartass that someone might want to pee on him but think better of it. Kirsten might oblige.
Everyone comes rushing as Emilio collapses onto the deck, writhing exaggeratedly, like a soccer player in need of some TLC. Laura hands me her first aid kit.
“Why me?” I mouth at her, stalling.
“Aller,” she hisses, with stern, get-on-with-it eyes.
I kneel down and take out the familiar tube of cream. “Here, be still.” My voice is surprisingly assertive, very stop-this-nonsense-ish. I’m on top of this. Gently, I rub anti-sting salve into his poor, sore skin. It’s almost as if I’m kissing him better. In fact, maybe I could kiss him better. If I kissed him now, would it be taking advantage of the situation?
“Gemma, I think I need to go down into the cabin.”
Oh. Is this a polite way of saying get your big, clumsy paws off me?
I turn into Thumbelina.
“Would you mind coming down with me?”
I’m Gisele Bundchen, Queen of the Amazon.
I can’t risk eye contact with anyone. It might break the spell, make me lose my nerve. Hiding behind my hair, doing my best to appear casual, I mumble “no problem” and follow him below deck. Hey, no big deal! I go into cabins with glamorous, injured celebrities all the time! I’m only going down there to make sure he’s all right. Jellyfish stings hurt. I know. I’ve been there, experienced that.
I can feel a dozen eyes burning into the back of my neck, each offering a different message.
“Go girl, woof woof woof!” say Laura’s eyes.
“Go girl, just be careful,” say Celeste’s.
“Enjoy,” say Jorge’s.
“Whatever,” say David’s.
“Don’t make a mess,” say Philip’s.
“Is there anything I can do?” offers Kirsten, the only one to speak aloud. “Anything at all?”
But we’re already in his cabin. He’s shut the door. I can hardly breathe.
And he’s kissing me...
**

“Mucho Caliente!” is available in print from Amazon and Barnes and Noble.com.
It is available as an ebook from BookStrand, Mobipocket, All Romance Ebooks.
It is also available in Kindle from Amazon.com


Have a wonderful, boo-boo free summer!


Lots of love,


Francesca


Francesca Prescott
"MUCHO CALIENTE! - Wish upon a Latino Superstar"
An effervescent romantic comedy
LASR: Best Long Book of the Year 2008: "Laugh out loud hilarious!"
NOR: Reviewer Top Pick: "A seriously fun book with more twists and turns than expected"
CRR: Hard to put down”
http://www.francescaprescott.com/