Miraflores district, Lima, Peru.

Nadia kicked the front door of the Bienvenido a Casa hostel closed with her heel. It slammed shut behind her.

"Whoops, sorry!" she called out, certain Jacqui would be rolling her eyes.

The heavy plastic bags dug into the crease between her palms and fingers. On a sigh, she lowered them to the ground and poked her head into the living room, hoping to find Khai there. No such luck.

He'd promised to meet her at the supermercado half an hour earlier but never materialised.

A small part of her worried about him, the rest wanted to scream. This behaviour had become typical. It hurt. Particularly because Khai had caught a raven-haired shadow who repeatedly popped up with a 'Surprise!'

Surprise, my arse.

Why couldn't they have some time alone? Go out for a romantic meal, just the two of them — at a proper restaurant. Fork out for a private room once in a while.

She got it, meeting people and developing friendships was important when travelling, and they weren't rich. The typical street food wasn't high in nutrients either. More like a recipe for constipation or, dependent upon the hygiene of the establishment, the polar opposite.

She peered down into the bag containing a six-pack of Cusqueña cerveza. One thing Khai didn't skimp on was booze. More accurately, she didn't. Once again, she found herself hoping he came through on his promise when her money ran out. A whisper of unease settled upon her, but she shook it off and made for the kitchen.

"Buenas noches, Jacqui," she said as she passed the alcove.

"Humph, gringos."

Definitely an eye roll there.

She turned to the kitchen entryway and stopped in her tracks as a pile of precariously stacked dishes fell in a riot of metal, clattering across the clay tiles. Pots, pans and cutlery skidded in all directions. A silver bowl spun like a whirling dervish, faster and faster until it peaked, lost momentum, and resumed a state of inertia in a dramatic wobble.

A man stood in the epicentre of the chaos, eyes wide, mouth gaping. He glanced up, and as he registered her presence, his expression upgraded to mortification.

For a moment, the brightness of his blue eyes struck her. Then she took in the rest of him: tall and slender with broad shoulders, dressed in tanned chinos and a buttoned-down white shirt, his dark-blonde hair tousled. The man from this morning. He was hot. Bloody hot.

They stared at each other until the weight in her hands became too much. She blinked and shook the treacherous thought out of her head. It's not cool to perve on other men, Nadia.

With breath held, she bustled into the kitchen and lowered her shopping onto the table, taking care not to break the glass. Relieved of her burden, she turned to the man.

His body had rotated to follow her while his feet remained in place, and he stared at her with the same slack-jawed face, a wooden spoon still held in one uplifted hand.

She giggled. He looked like a dickhead.

The hilarity of the situation collided with suppressed feelings of disappointment, rejection and fear, and spilled out in unrestrained laughter. She doubled over, palms on her knees to brace herself. Soon, her guts ached.

Stop it. Stop it! she told herself. Don't be mean. He must be so embarrassed. She bit down on her lip. Ouch!

She peeked up and realised he was laughing too. The man had sunk against the mint-green cupboards and now sat on the floor, wiping tears from his eyes in between fits of laughter. They met hers awkwardly, and a fresh burst of giggles erupted out of each of them.

"Oiga! Que es eso?"

They jumped in unison at the high-pitched voice of Jacqui who stood at the door with hands on hips.

"What have you done a mi cocina, eh?"

Nadia surveyed the carnage, and a bubbling grew in her chest. She couldn't help it. She needed to laugh — else she would cry.

The man was otherwise inclined. While her body shook, he sprang to his feet and rushed to the woman.

"Disculpe, Jacqui. Here, no, please stop that!"

Jacqui huffed, ignoring him and picking up the clutter.

"Please let me fix — oh dear." The man chased after her, attempting to pick things up before the lightning-quick woman reached them.

"Ahhh!" screeched Jacqui as the man's head slammed into hers. Hand on her right temple, she glared at him. A manicured finger pointed at the far corner of the kitchen.

"Vayase. Go there!"

The man ogled her, his face red as a tomato and painted with pure horror.

"Va!"

He ran across the room like his life depended upon it and knelt to gather up the assortment of scattered cutlery with painful slowness.

Still chuckling, Nadia stood and retrieved a missed spatula, walked over to the bench and put the item with the others. By then Jacqui had most of the pots and pans off the floor and was shaking her head and mumbling under her breath.

"Gringos stupidos."

The man knelt on the floor, as focused on his task as if he were conducting surgery. The second Jacqui was out of sight, he let out an audible sigh of relief.

"I heard that!" said Jacqui from around the corner.

The man gulped, turned and regarded Nadia with round eyes, then looked away. "Bollocks."

She grinned and took pity on him. "Don't worry. Jacqui's fine. Just make sure you put all this away and clean up after yourself — or she might skin you alive."

His eyes widened.

"The theory's never been tested, as far as I know, but I'm not game to try. I'll leave you to it, K."

She set to work preparing her vegetables. As she did, the sound of various cupboards being opened and banged shut grew distracting.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed past him to get to the utensil drawer. She pulled. It wouldn't budge. Bloody hell. She yanked hard, and it opened. She held out her hand, and the man handed over the spatula. She dropped it in, nodded at his thanks, and turned back to the table.

When the tomatoes sat in a now-dented saucepan, she checked the white plastic clock hanging over the kitchen entrance. Where was Khai? Probably out drinking with the Americans. With Savannah.

The sound of banging continued. Fucking hell! The man was stacking a silver mixing bowl on a set of porcelain plates.

"What the heck are you doing?"

"I — I ... I'm putting these" — he indicated with a wave of his hands — "things away."

Still irritated by his apparent stupidity, and holding on to anything that would distract her from the image of Khai smiling at another woman, she walked over and pulled the bowl out of the cupboard and moved to the corner door.

"How about finding the right place to start with? See, the metal bowl goes with the other metal bowls — like this." Her voice took on a sarcastic tone as she set the bowl underneath a smaller one, reached up and selected an oversized copper pot. "This goes with the other pots. They are also metal. Now you know what cupboard metal goes in, you can expand this principle to other categories: crockery, utensils and cutlery. Entiendes?"

The man's face paled. His lips pursed and fists clenched. A pair of nostrils flared.

She recoiled a little. What had she done?

You were a total mole to a stranger.

The man was lost in a kitchen. He had just been laughed at, scolded, and humiliated, even though the dishes were an accident waiting to happen.

She took in his face, moved past the handsome features and noticed the dark patches under a pair of red-rimmed eyes. It would not take a mind reader to guess that he had flown in today. An idiot abroad — poor bloke. Now he had her at her worst.

She sighed and pushed off one knee with a hand. It had been unfair to take her relationship problems out on him. This was not the type of person she wanted to be.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not usually like this. You see ... I've got some stuff going on, and I'm not the best when I'm hungover."

He didn't answer. Instead, he contemplated her, though not directly. His eyes focused on the side of her face. Her stomach fell. With surprise, she realised she wanted him to look at her and — what? The flaring of his nostrils had stopped at least. That was a positive sign. Perhaps he needed a nudge.

"Want a beer?"

He blinked at her as if he'd never had an emotionally labile woman offer him a drink before.

"Er, thank you."

She beamed. "Coming right up."

She pulled two bottles of beer out of a bag and placed them in front of him. "Open them up, will you?"

The man nodded and turned, fumbling through a shelf which contained mugs. He was still hunting for a bottle opener when she'd put her remaining groceries in the fridge.

"Here." She walked to the drawer and, after another round of solid yanks, opened it and rifled around until she found it. She needed a drink.

A fizz of malt-scented air escaped with the pop of the lids. Her mouth watered. She could already taste the crisp flavour as she picked up both bottles, the dampness of the dark-brown glass sliding slick and cold against her skin.

The man took the proffered bottle and clinked its neck against hers in salute.

"Cheers," she said making firm eye contact, pretending to be oblivious to the ways his eyes wavered. The blue drew her. For a time, they stood staring at each other — she mesmerised and he too polite to turn away — until she remembered Khai and flushed.

People in love did not gawp at other men's eyes, even if they were as dreamy as the Whitsunday water on a perfect day. She coughed, upended her bottle, and took an extra-long gulp.

"That's quite good!" he said.

"Yep, my current favourite."

He smiled, visibly relaxing and stuck out his hand. "Please allow me to introduce myself, Thomas Waterhouse."

Nadia's eyebrows rose at his formality and his upper-class accent. She stifled a giggle, took his hand and put on her best bogan accent. "Pleas'd t' meet-cha, Nadia."

His forehead creased.

Crap. He knows how I speak. "Sorry ... Nadia Romanowski. Nice to meet you."

"Please" — he waved his hand — "I'm already quite out of my depth here, a little more teasing can't hurt."

"You need more beer, that will help."

He smirked and took a long swig, the movement in perfect synchrony with her own.

"Did you just get in today?"

"Er, yes. I just flew in this morning. Quite the mad dash."

I knew it. "Oh, and did you come straight from England?"

"Yes. And you, Australia or New Zealand?"

"You're playing it safe," she said in a teasing tone.

He quirked his brow. "Put it down to experience."

"As you should, don't want to offend the Kiwis." She blushed at his shy smile. "I'm from Adelaide. Middle bottom of Australia," she added, after seeing the familiar perplexity which crossed people's faces when she mentioned her hometown. "It's a capital city."

His face blanked.

"Wine central, great surf. You should go one day."

"Er, yes, I will endeavour that too. At the moment, I have a more pressing challenge." He turned to the impressive stack of dishes.

"Here, let me help."

The next minutes were spent packing away the kitchenware in an inefficient manner. She was familiar with this kitchen but frequently needed to prompt Thomas as he stacked everything away with painstaking precision.

When they finished, she was surprised to find herself offering him a second beer. Thomas accepted, and she turned back to her work, thinking that Khai could go to the corner shop — or splash out the extra fifty cents and buy some beer at the hostel. Unlikely as that was.

She continued her chopping and was brushing away tears caused by a big, juicy onion when her nose wrinkled at the smell of something burning.

Turning, she saw a pot sitting on a blazing element with a bunch of dry spaghetti sticking out at various angles. Thomas was nowhere to be seen. She ran over and peered in. What the? The sticks poked from the contents of a jar of Bolognese sauce. She grabbed the handle.

"Shit!"

Shaking her hand, she grabbed a tea towel, plunked the pot into the sink and turned on the tap, releasing a cloud of steam.

"Idiot!"

"Excuse me?" said Thomas, standing at the door, iPad in hand. "That was my dinner."

This man was possibly the most infuriating human she'd ever met. "I said you're an idiot! What were you thinking? You could have burned down the kitchen!"

Thomas put down his tablet and held up the spaghetti wrapper in one hand and the empty jar in the other. He peered from one to the other and mumbled to himself, "I know they go together, but how?"

She gawped at him a moment, walked over, and seized the packet, pointing at the instructions — which she realised were in Spanish.

"You cook the spaghetti in water first — boiling water."

"But ... the sauce is wet."

She facepalmed herself. "You know, I figured by the way you talk that you had an education. So, you must be smart. Clearly, I was mistaken."

Thomas straightened. "I was top of my class; thank you very much."

"But you still can't make pasta?"

"This was my first attempt."

She crossed her arms. "Didn't anybody ever teach you?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

His eyes moved upwards in thought. "Well, there was always a cook."

"You had a cook?"

"Yes, my parents have a brilliant one. Much better than the ones at boarding school — or university."

There were no words. She'd heard of people like him, but the last thing she had expected was to run into one — least of all wreaking havoc in a budget hostel kitchen, in a developing country. There was only one explanation.

"Did they cut you off or something?"

"No. Why would you assume such a thing?"

"Well, what are you doing here?"

"Trying to cook." He breathed heavily, deflating before her eyes.

Again, shame swept over her. "Oh, come on. Want me to show you?"

His eyes lit. "Could you?"

"Get a new pot and fill it with water, then put it on the heat — you can do that right?"

He nodded and hurried to do what she said. Done, he waited for further directions.

"How about you open another couple of beers?"

Thomas completed the job at record speed. "That looks painful," he said, looking at her as she continued to cut the onion.

"It is." She set about teaching him how to cook spaghetti. Soon, he grinned like a boy as he stirred, checking his gold watch at frequent intervals. She smiled, sipping her third beer, the aroma of oregano and garlic wrapping around them.

"Babe!"

Nadia flinched as an arm wrapped around her shoulder, accompanied by the scent of hard liquor. Khai's rough stubble scraped her skin as he nuzzled her neck.

"Babeeeeeeeeee."

She grimaced. Her eyes caught Thomas', and she mouthed a silent apology. His mouth pulled up on one side.

Catching their exchange, Khai released her to smack a sloppy kiss on her lips. "Mwah!" Done, he turned, eying her strangely. "So, who is this, babe?"

She smothered the urge to wipe her lips clean. His affection made her feel dirty. Like a dog had marked her as his territory. She cleared her throat. "Khai, this is Thomas. Thomas, this is my um ... partner, Khai."

The men locked gazes for a moment. Khai broke the standoff by stepping forward with hand outstretched and a self-assured smile on his face. Thomas scrutinised it for a second before reciprocating.

She noted a grimace on Thomas' face as Khai's hand squeezed.

"Khai Morris: traveller, author, photographer and entrepreneur," he said with chest puffed out.

Thomas knitted his brows. "Thomas: unemployed and about to overcook the spaghetti. Please excuse me a moment." He extricated himself from the grip, flexing his hand.

"Use the tea tow—"

"Damn it!" cried Thomas. He took the tea towel from her, and she ran over to place a colander below the pot.

"Entrepreneur? What sort of work do you do?" asked Thomas, over the noise of pouring water, slopping spaghetti and gusting steam.

Khai claimed Nadia's beer from the table and drank, leaning against the wall, arms crossed and one leg draped over the other.

"I'm the founder of a new kind of travel blog. KhaiPod. Like a tripod, but 'Khai' instead of 'tri'."

Nadia groaned.

"Oh? What new market are you offering?"

"KhaiPod offers the standard platform which allows you to share your travel blog and photography with the world, but for a small price you can message me, and I will contribute my expertise in travel, writing, and photography."

"Oh, er ... how original."

Thomas sneaked Nadia a sidelong grin, and she felt her cheeks stretch.

"Originality is my angle. In the future, I will recruit more experienced travellers like myself to expand its services. I have one in the works already.'

Scowling, Nadia reached for her bottle and encountered thin air. "That was my beer. It was the last one."

Khai ignored her. "I launched it six months ago. It's still in the planning and development stage, but building a following and bringing in some income".

Great, so you have enough money to get me another drink.

"My congratulations. Nadia, would you like another?"

She nodded, and Thomas disappeared. The man might be frustrating, but at least he had manners.

"I don't like strange men buying you beers."

She turned away from the door to see Khai looking at her intently. She smiled as light-heartedly as she could. "Oh, he's just repaying us for the ones he borrowed."

"I don't like you buying strange men beers, either." It wasn't quite a growl that came out of Khai's mouth, but it had the same menacing quality.

"It's not how it looks. He had an accident in the kitchen — he's clumsy as hell, and it seemed rude not to offer. I know you would have done the same. I expected you much earlier. Where were you? I was worried."

Khai's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "I ran into the Americans and lost track of time. You know how they can be."

Nadia's heart froze. So, he had been with her. "You stood me up for Savannah?"

"Look, Nadia, you need to get over —"

A tread of feet announced Thomas. Funny, she hadn't realised he walked so loud before.

"Buddy!" said Khai, arms held out. "You'll join us for dinner?" He plucked a beer from Thomas' hand, took a long skull, and directed a private, dark glare at her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Supermercado — Supermarket

Cerveza — Beer (Cusqueña cerveza — a brand of beer local to Cusco, and very popular in Peru).

Oiga! Que es eso? — Hey! What is this?

... a mi cocina — ... to my kitchen

Disculpe — Sorry

Vayase — Go away

Va — Go

Entiendes? — You understand?

Image sourced from globetrottergirls.com