Taking a half-step back in time to the early days of disco, the time between free love and responsible encounters, a trip to Mexico for young divorcee Cara can be as exciting as it is uncertain, as tempting as it is forbidden. Sometimes the best advice is the piece we don’t take.

Welcome. And, enjoy!

Travel Advisory

by Dana Collins

He had called her Flaca, with her long, white legs and slightly droopy bikini.

Skinny. She had flung her straight brown hair over her shoulder and turned away from him, squinting at the vivid bay from her poolside lounge chair. She was alone on her first trip to Mexico. By some fluke, she had been invited by the daily paper in her Texas town to attend a travel writers’ conference in Acapulco, once a world-class tourist destination. She was just a young, inexperienced freelancer, not on the payroll, so the Tourism Board-financed trip met 1970s journalism ethics. Something newspapers cared about back then.

Cara was 27 years old, but looked a bit younger, she was often told. The fact seemed to support the defenseless feeling she tried to hide by acting extra independent, glowing with an I-can-do-it-myself attitude. Growing up, she had almost never followed what her big sister, barely two years older, suggested. 

By high school, Louise had aced her early SAT’s, skipped senior year, and gone directly into UT Austin’s highly competitive pre-med program. Louise was almost 30 now and a medical fellow on the East Coast. Cara chewed at her cocktail straw and wondered what Louise would think about where Cara was now. They didn’t keep in touch much. Cara never knew when was a good time to call, knowing if Louise wasn’t at the hospital she was probably sleeping.

“Flaca!” The man repeated. Cara looked up and was surprised to see how handsome he was. Growing up in Texas, she had avoided looking directly at the Mexican men who lived in her town. She volunteered to read books with the Hispanic kids in their small school on the south side, but one time, walking from her car, a man in the neighborhood had followed her and tried to touch the front of her t-shirt. She had jerked away and run into the school, shaking. Ever since, she couldn’t stop the image of the short dark shadow and husky hand reaching out for her. When the newspaper had invited her on this trip, in fact, she had nearly refused, but needed the money she would be paid for her articles. When the conference ended, the travel writers could go on free side trips. Cara had signed up for the Spanish colonial town of Merida, the Chichen Itza ruins, and Cancun, then an unknown but developing beach town.

“I saw you in the exhibit hall,” the dark, slender man stated in nearly accent-free English. “May I?” He gestured toward the lounge next to Cara. She sat up, pulling her towel around her, and nodded reluctantly.

“Are you enjoying your time here in Acapulco?”

Except for the strange nickname he had given her, Cara thought, this man was polite and elegant, even. He wore a button-down pale blue shirt with navy Bermuda-style shorts and a pair of expensive looking casual loafers. His aviator-style sunglasses mirrored her pale reflection. She wondered about the eyes beneath those stylish shades.

“My name is Rodrigo Ruiz Garcia,” he handed Cara his card. She squinted at the small blue lettering. Vista Travel Inc. Vice President. Media Relations.

“Oh,” she took a breath. “My name is Cara …” she drifted off. Should she give him her last name? Did it really matter?

“Pleased to meet you, Cara – Senorita?” Rodrigo smiled.

“Oh, well, uh, for now,” she stammered. “I mean, I was, well —“

“I understand totalmente,” he said gravely. “My company is holding a reception tonight in the hotel ballroom. Would you be able to attend?”

Wondering first what to wear, mentally sorting through her few packed carry on items, Cara hesitated and tugged at her towel.

“We are providing press kits with all sorts of good background for every side trip, I assure you,” Rodrigo said. “Your articles will outshine all others!”

He said it so warmly and encouragingly that Cara sighed and finally smiled. “Yes, I will come, I mean, I will be there.” Her face felt suddenly hot. “And thank you, Senor Rodrigo.”

* * * * *

Cara spent the rest of the afternoon searching the shops of Acapulco, then still a luxurious beachside lure for visitors around the world. The prices seemed quite high, and she was uncertain of how to bargain or if she even should.

She settled on a simple, spaghetti strap dark red shift, clinging nicely, she thought, to her slight curves. The flappy sandals she brought with her would have to do. At the last minute, she unclasped her skimpy bra and tossed it defiantly to the floor. Cara pulled the dress back over her head, tousling her hair just the right amount, and set out to the ballroom.

She heard the loud, excited reverberation of Spanish speakers as she approached. Why had she studied French in both high school and college? Louise had insisted Spanish would be much more useful, for one reason. And Louise had turned conversationally proficient seemingly overnight, moving on to German for her semester abroad, and later Mandarin Chinese, for any future work in Asia.

A champagne glass was gracefully placed in her hand as Cara walked through the door. Chandeliers glittered above the mass of buzzing writers and Vista Travel personnel, all wearing dark blue suits with white shirts and red ties. Ice sculptures in the shapes of the Mexican pyramids, Cara noted admiringly, crowded the banquet tables stuffed with seafood and dishes of all kinds. She decided to position herself somewhere near the food but not too close, and nervously sipped her bubbly glass.

“Hola, Flaca!” She heard from across the room. Cara felt the first prickle of blushing.

“Senorita Cara, so glad you are here,” Rodrigo said as he neared, a striking bronze-skinned blonde in a tight navy sheath at his side. Queasiness jolted Cara. “May I introduce Senora Victorina? She is handling the trip I believe you are taking to Merida and Chichen Itza.”

Cara saw Rodrigo’s eyes for the first time. Large, dark, and heavily lashed, they were captivating. In that brief moment, she thought she’d never forget them. Rodrigo waved and slipped into the animated crowd, leaving Cara with the VisTra publicity woman who smiled and began speaking quickly in savvy English. Did Rodrigo have to dash off? Cara wondered distractedly while chatting with his polished colleague until the bells rang for dinner. They sat together with several other PR people and a couple of freelancers like Cara. She looked around for Rodrigo. He was seated on the stage with the other VisTra executives, waiting his turn to speak to the crowd.

One of the writers at Cara’s table, a German woman with a neatly cropped silver hairstyle, sat down next to her toward the end of dinner. They chatted a bit about each other’s work, then the woman said, “That man on the stage, the tall handsome one,” she waved a shooing hand like toward Rodrigo. “You have been talking to him, no?”

Cara shook her head. “Only just a little. He told me about this party.”

“Hmm,” the woman murmured. “Well, I would be careful of his kind. They pounce on young ones like you. It’s quite common.” She stood up and looked down at Cara. “Be smart,” she said sharply and walked away.

* * * * *

The next day, after a morning visiting the travel booths in the exhibit hall, Cara rode up the glass escalator to her room, exhausted from the noise and forced smiling. Standing in the shower, she let a curtain of cool water cascade over her scalp and face. After all her years in Texas, her head still suffered from heat. She had never really felt at home there, she realized, especially after her failed marriage. Maybe she should move back East for the brisk, coppery autumn days and to be close to Louise. Maybe they could share weekly Sunday dinners and, afterward, together call home to their parents.

Cara squeezed her damp hair and stepped out of the shower. She wrapped a towel around her head and enfolded herself inside the plush hotel robe. No, Cara knew she would probably never be close to Louise. Something always made her resist her older sister. Something made her never want to be told what to do, like that off-putting German lady at the dinner the night before. How awful, Cara thought, staring into the mirror, that a stranger assumed she was so vulnerable as to be duped immediately by a charming, successful man. Not me, she told herself, never again.

There was a soft knock on the door. She tiptoed out of the bathroom and stood by the keyhole. Nothing. Another light rap-rap. She looked through the hole. Rodrigo.

“What – what do you want?” Cara nearly barked through the door.

“Nothing really,” he said. “I just hadn’t seen you today. I wondered if you were feeling all right. There really was too much champagne served last night.”

Cara opened the door without releasing the chain. “Oh, I’m fine,” she said, touching her towel turban.

“So sorry! I have disturbed you,” Rodrigo whispered. “Could I bring you a cup of tea? Or would you like a walk on the beach?”

Cara stared at his dark brown eyes through the narrow door opening. He looked so carefree and gentle. A walk on the beach with someone nice would be pleasant.

He saw her face brighten. “I could wait for you on your balcony while you get dressed,” he said.

Cara opened her door slowly, and he immediately headed toward the sliding glass door. His profile was dramatic against the shocking blue of the Acapulco Bay. He sat down on a chair and lit a cigarette. He looked peaceful and sophisticated, without a need for anything in the world. Cara drew toward the balcony, clutching her robe. She felt a sudden urge to feel this elegant man’s warmth next to her, to take in the worldly mixture of his scent.

“Come,” Rodrigo beckoned softly. They sat in chairs side by side staring out at the sea. Shorebirds chattered. Palm trees rustled. A few children squealed in delight.

“The ocean is the best medicine, don’t you think?” Rodrigo asked.

Cara looked at him. Did he think she needed a cure? She felt calm and cozy in her robe and the turban on her head felt queenly. He held out his hand to her. She looked at his hand, his long fingers, and his shiny gold pinkie ring. Very European, she thought, though she knew she had no idea. A breeze swept across her cheek. Her fingers touched his. Carefully he pulled her onto his lap, her turban lightly bumping his forehead. They laughed a little, then sat quietly for several minutes.

“Your face is so kind,” Rodrigo said. “It makes me think of my father.”

Cara giggled. “Oh, really?”

“Well, I mean that in the very best way,” he said, lightly hugging her. He pressed his lips to her forehead. The pressure was so soothing, Cara thought. His arms drew her closer. She gazed beyond him to the lapping beach and mesmerizing waves. A sea breeze seemed to encircle them. She began wishing she could shrug off the robe from her shoulders. Rodrigo would press those delicious lips against her shoulders. His handsome eyes would cast appreciatively down her body. His steady, warm hands would stroke her breasts before lightly falling between her legs…

“Now, we must get ready for that walk!” Rodrigo broke Cara’s reverie. “Because later we are going to party and disco!”

* * * * *

A chauffeured town car met Cara at the hotel’s main entrance just as the sun was scattering golden shards into the sea. “Buenas noches, Senorita,” the driver said as he opened her door and helped her into the car. “Senor Garcia will meet you at la residencia.” He tipped his cap and ran around to the driver’s side.

The car’s interior was scented with cinnamon. The driver nodded toward a chilled glass of champagne resting in the cup holder. Cara felt giddy with the first bubbly sip. As they drove a long avenue up the mountain, the stunning scenery of flowering trees and magnificent homes captivated her. This might be what the Hollywood Hills are like, she mused.

The party’s residence did not disappoint her. Its two-story arched entry cascaded with colorful, gem-embedded tiles of birds and flowers. The driver walked Cara up the steps to the door, nodded and disappeared. A stream of guests rushed by her. Everyone was dressed “to the nines,” as her mother used to say. Sophistication and shimmering brown skin were the dress code. Cara quickly felt terribly dowdy in the same dress she had worn the night before, but what could she do?

Rodrigo materialized in front of her. “Flaca!” he gushed, quickly kissing both sides of her face. As if he knew how she was feeling, he produced a large glossy shopping bag. “Here,” he said, “I saw this after our walk and thought of you.” He gestured her to step down a hall to a guest restroom.

Cara closed the door behind her, opened the bag, and gasped.

“What is it? Is anything the matter?” a voice said from inside a marble toilet stall.

“Oh, it’s just a surprise,” Cara laughed. “A beautiful surprise!” She jumped into the stall next to her invisible companion and slipped quickly out of her flimsy dress, wadding it into her clutch. Rodrigo’s dress was a tight fitting short silk gown emblazoned in sequins befitting a peacock. Cara tugged it into place. At the mirror the other girl was meticulously applying her lipstick, a shade of red not to be ignored. Cara saw her own face wash out in comparison. Thinking of Rodrigo, she reached for her mascara to play up her eyes a bit.

“Wow, that is quite a number!” the girl giggled. “Whoever found that dress knows how to make a statement.”

“I just hope I can carry it off,” Cara forced a laugh. She smoothed the tight fabric over her thighs and leaned over to straighten a sandal strap. The girl moved behind her and grabbed her around the waist.

“Your boyfriend is a lucky guy,” the girl slurred into her ear. Cara lurched away. Looking back, she saw the girl’s sly smile, saying, “Lo siento, mucho vino.” Cara grabbed her purse and ran out of the room.

“What, what is it? You don’t like the dress?” Rodrigo looked troubled when he saw Cara’s face. She shook her head and refused to speak for several minutes. They walked to the bar, but Cara waved away the drink the bartender handed her.

“You look fabuloso!” Rodrigo exclaimed. “I knew you would become the most beautiful woman in the room.” He pulled Cara outside onto an expansive terrace overlooking a deep valley dotted with houses twinkling in the fading twilight. “Now, look at that,” he swept his arm across the view. “Doesn’t that make everything better?”

Cara stared at Rodrigo. His dark eyes implored her gently. The pulsing light of many torches illuminated his starched white guayabera dress shirt tapering loosely over his slim black trousers. She looked out over the beautiful valley. So many homes, so many different lives, Cara thought. Feeling a lift of excited expectation, she brushed a tiny blossom from Rodrigo’s shoulder. “I’m starving,” she said. “Let’s dine!”

* * * * *

After the party and too many Spanish-English conversations to keep track of, a group of Rodrigo’s friends headed out, as is tradition on a party night, to go dancing. The disco club was pitch black when Rodrigo guided Cara through the front door. She heard the voices and the clink of glasses. She felt his hand as he tenderly pulled her along. Suddenly lights exploded above and a large platform rose up from the floor. Bodies barely covered in sequins and satin leaped onto the stage. Rays of light bounced off every surface. The music flooded human veins. Arms and legs moved wildly as if flailing in water.

“We’ll have a drink first,” Rodrigo said. They sat at a large round table in a corner. Rodrigo knew all the pretty people who kept joining them. They spoke almost entirely in Spanish. Cara gulped her drink and was quickly given another. She began to yearn to join in with Rodrigo’s friends. She followed their eyes and their hands. Everyone seemed to be dressed in the least amount of clothing possible, looking more and more sexy as the night progressed. More drinks were served. “Bailamos!” One man yelled. Everyone hopped up and Rodrigo put his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s dance,” he mouthed.

Cara stumbled up the stairs to the stage. Flashing strobe lights seemed to paint the crowd into chaotic jigsaw shapes. She reached out for Rodrigo but grabbed another man’s arm instead. He danced around her shaking his hips and waving his arms. She grabbed more arms and made her way back to the stairs, practically tumbling down them, then blinking toward the restroom sign. Los Banos.

She hated to risk going in there after her last experience, but she had no choice. She just made it into a stall before vomiting a scorching green liquid stream. Cara leaned heavily against the stall wall. She heard more women pour into the small restroom. They all spoke feverish party chatter. Cara’s head pounded.

In the tumult, she thought she heard Rodrigo’s name a few times. “No esta casado?” One woman asked. “Si, si,” another answered. “He is married. Es typical,” she flatly stated. Another woman started banging on the door of Cara’s stall. “Sale ahora!” Cara wiped her mouth with toilet paper and pushed open the door. Hot pants and halter tops swirled around her. The women all stared except the one who shoved her aside to use the toilet. Cara wished she could stand up straight and do justice to her own flashy outfit. Instead, she clutched her purse to her chest and ran out of the restroom.

“There you are,” Rodrigo was standing nearby. “Oh, Flaca, you look awful.” He put his arm around her and guided her past the dancers, out into the warm, sticky night. Cara threw up once more on the sidewalk. She thought of Louise who was probably just now finishing her 15-hour shift of saving people’s lives. Louise who had always been just ahead of her, encouraging her to work a little harder, try a little more. “Be smart,” like the German woman had said. Cara gazed across the street to a rippled reflection of moon on the wide Acapulco Bay. How could she be so stupid? This was no way for a journalist to behave, even if she was just a once in a while freelance writer who worked at her apartment kitchen counter.

“Let’s get you back to your room,” Rodrigo said. Cara wanted to push him away, but her legs wobbled. They walked slowly together to the hotel and up the elevator. He took her key and opened the door. She made it into the bathroom to wash her face and rinse out her mouth.

Cara didn’t like what she saw in the sink mirror. Dripping mascara and tangled frizzy hair. She clumsily undressed and pulled on the hotel robe. Now she would have to face Rodrigo, she thought. She would have to fight him off and probably would not succeed. In the morning she would cancel her free Vista Travel side trips and go home empty handed of interesting articles about Chichen Itza, Uxmal and the other ancient Mayan pyramids. She had already started researching the Mayans and learned that they had been an advanced culture that suddenly disappeared in about 1200 AD.

She had begun to long to find out more about these mysterious people. How could they have just vanished when they were able to build such powerful structures that were still standing? One even included a planetary observatory. Now she would have to vanish, Cara thought. The newspaper would think she was a fake writer and would never hire her again. She would have to move, that’s what she would do. She would start all over. She would go back to college and get a different degree…

“Flaca, are you okay in there?” Rodrigo called. Like a ghost, she appeared at the bathroom door and floated out to meet her fate. Rodrigo was not sitting on the bed in his undershorts or, even worse, sprawled nude waiting for her. Instead he was sitting primly on the love seat away from the bed, flipping through a magazine.

“Get yourself into bed,” he said. “I’ll wait here to make sure you’re not sick again.” Cara nodded and crept under the covers. The nausea was gone at last and she snuggled deep into the linens, her head turned to keep one eye on Rodrigo.

* * * * *

A brightly searing sunrise was the next thing Cara saw, as the light pierced her eyes. Where was she? Oh, she dreaded looking over in the bed beside her. Had he slid under the sheets while she slept? Cara felt around her but she was quite alone. She sat up and looked around. There, bunched into a fetal position on the loveseat, was tall, regal Rodrigo. His white shirt was crumpled and his shiny loafers askew on the floor. His long black lashes lay still on his high cheekbones. He snored softly. Was he possibly a son of Spanish ancestors? Cara mused. The ones who overcame the Aztecs, the Incas, and maybe even a diminished group of remaining Mayan descendants? Civilizations had been toppled and transformed, birthing Mexico’s colorful, creative mestizo people.

Cara looked at the sleeping man and was filled with an unfamiliar sense of satisfaction. And something more. Maybe she hadn’t behaved so badly. Maybe her choices weren’t always terrible. Rodrigo murmured softly as he shifted on the couch, then quieted. Cara smiled at him and thought, maybe she would learn to speak Spanish, after all.

On the elevator down to breakfast, Rodrigo stepped closer to Cara as a group from another floor squeezed inside. Cara glimpsed the German woman she had met, glaring in her direction. Cara thought of Rodrigo’s wrinkled shirt and tousled hair. She suddenly thought how thrilling it would be to climb an ancient Mayan ruin on her own at dawn. Standing just a bit straighter, she took hold of the brown hand brushing hers. Rodrigo smiled softly and mouthed, “Flaca.”

When they walked out of the elevator together, she didn’t look back.

* * * * *

Cara saw the tour busses lining the hotel drive. She was surprised to feel a cloud of disappointment. If she stayed a bit longer, she could get to know Rodrigo. They could even share a truly romantic night. But was he free?

“You must see everything you can of my amazing country,” Rodrigo told her.

Cara blinked up at him. “Rodrigo,” she began, her mouth dry and heart pounding. He waited. “Rodrigo, are you – are you –“

“There, that’s your bus. It’s late now, you must board,” he lifted her pack and led her down the sidewalk. He took her face in his hands. “I will see you again. Don’t worry, Flaca. Enjoy yourself!”

* * * * *

As advertised, the Mayan pyramids were enchanting. The bus full of travel writers buzzed with talk as they approached Maya Land, the vintage hacienda resort where they would be staying while touring Chichen Itza’s El Castillo, built around 600 A.D., and the area’s ruins.

The group had flown from Acapulco to a day in the Spanish colonial town of Merida, before boarding a bus to travel through the lush Yucatan countryside. Cara sat with another freelancer from Texas who boasted for most of the trip about her publishing achievements.

Cara made sure to escape to the single hotel room she had been promised. She needed quiet and time to ponder her feelings about the mysterious man whom she’d like to see again. A whirring ceiling fan was all she heard as she read from her paperback of Mexican history under a small bedside light.

When the power shut off at midnight, the room quickly heated up. Cara searched again and again for a cool spot on the bed linens to rest her cheek. She stared at the shutters waiting for a shaft of light to appear.

What was she doing here? A sob threatened in her throat. The trip now seemed entirely meaningless. One or two articles, if published, would not even cover a quarter of her apartment’s rent back home. She should have stayed there and kept searching for a decent full time job with benefits and stability. A life insurance company had offered her a job to write copy for their brochures, she reminded herself. She could be paying her full rent on time now and working in an office 9 to 5, relieving the worries of both her mother and sister. Cara saw herself as a lost, fluttering sheet of typed paper sailing away down a long highway.

A crack of gray light peered through the shutters. Cara jumped up and pulled on the running shorts she had left on the floor. If nothing else, she would be the first writer there to see the mighty pyramid.

Up the heavy stone terracing, Cara climbed slowly to the top of El Castillo. The moist, ancient air was scented with jungle flowers and historic endeavors. Cara felt her own fog lifting as she reached the top, just in time to view the sun rising above the dense, lush surroundings. She inhaled deeply and threw her arms out wide. More than ten centuries ago the residents of what was once a large, sophisticated Mayan center lived, loved, worked, and died just below where she stood. The lofty spirit of the place streamed through her arms and legs. Cara wrapped her arms, fervently hugging herself, thinking, this was why she had come here. The timeless beauty of the sky and forest was reassuring. She smiled at the warming dawn, then hopped happily back down the temple steps and jogged to the hotel.

“Flaca!” Rodrigo stood by the coffee bar, beaming in a white jacket and lean navy pants. “You are quite the early bird!”

Cara froze. Was this real? Rodrigo had been woven tightly into her thoughts since leaving Acapulco. She wanted to run to him, but she hesitated. Was he here to see her? Maybe he was just doing his job checking on the group traveling at his company’s expense. “Rodrigo, when – when did you arrive?” Cara asked nervously.

“Last night, but I didn’t want to disturb you. My car came very late. But we must catch up. Shall we meet tonight after the last tour?” Rodrigo leaned in and gave her a light hug.

Rodrigo was here last night and did not even ring her room, Cara thought. Yet she was so drawn to him, his hands hot on her back through her thin t-shirt, that her new hopeful happiness bubbled inside.

“Let’s see how it goes,” Cara murmured over his shoulder, before planting a moist kiss on his cheek.

* * * * *

Cara returned to her room that evening hot and dusty from tromping around several other ruins. She looked in the mirror and gasped at her sweat-streaked face and disastrous hairstyle. How could elegant Rodrigo ever be interested in this ruin, she wondered. She decided to draw a bath and light the tub side votive candles. There was even a jar of scented blossoms to toss in. Cara dropped her sweaty clothes on the floor and slipped gratefully into the silky water.

Her hands fingered the blossoms. She closed her eyes. She imagined Rodrigo leaning over her, his narrow brown torso squeezing into the tub beside her. His hands glided over her body. He began kissing her from the neck, moving lower and lower. He suddenly flipped her on top of himself, hungry to be inside her. She rose up on her knees awaiting…

“Riiiiing,” the bathroom phone blared. “Riiiing – riiiing!!” Cara shook herself back to reality and grabbed the receiver. “This is a courtesy call. Flowers have been delivered to your room. Buenos noches.”

Cara ran dripping into the bedroom. She spied the brilliant bouquet that had been quietly delivered to the table by her door. The note read, “To tonight. Love, R.”

Flowers? Love? Cara’s overheated brain scrambled to make sense of the messages. She blushed at her bath time fantasy. She forced herself to focus on what was the best that could happen. She pictured the two of them seated at a small, candlelit table in a corner of the dining room, gazing into each other’s eyes, of course.

Rodrigo would take her hand and say, “Ever since I saw you, I can’t stop thinking about you.” Cara would nod and smile through another sip of deep red wine. “Cara, I mean it,” he would say. “I haven’t been interested in anyone since my wife and I broke up months ago.”

Yes, that would be the best, Cara decided. But, on the other hand, this is just for tonight, isn’t it? “I can be confident and enjoy this attraction,” she said aloud firmly.

She regretted she was forced again to wear her thin, strappy dress with only a scarf to slightly dress it up. Yet inspiration struck. Cara nearly skipped to the hotel gift boutique. There in the window, she had seen a pendant necklace with a flower-shaped initial. She knew just what she wanted.

* * * * *

The dinner was perfect, and Rodrigo glowed in a fresh, sky blue shirt under his still crisp white jacket. As dessert cups were cleared, Rodrigo reached out to touch Cara’s fingertips, her hand lying casually on the linen tablecloth. Yes, they looked into each other’s candlelit eyes. His achingly deep brown ones held stories she would never know, she realized. Yet now, for one night, she could choose to be part of the mystery and timelessness of this enchanting land and its bold people.

Cara loosened the wrap around her shoulders to let her new necklace gleam in the candlelight.

“Flaca! I love it!” Rodrigo exclaimed. He kissed her hand and looked up at her with the sincerest of gazes.

The flowery letter F rested lightly above Cara’s breasts; breasts she was positive would soon be caressed.

Romantic Shorts thanks you for joining us for Dana Collins’s Travel Advisory. Please feel free to visit Dana Collins’s Author’s Page to learn more about this talented writer. You can leave a comment for Dana, other readers, or Romantic Shorts using the comment form below, our contact form on our Contact Us page, or by sharing this story with friends and family using the share buttons below.

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