"Fine," she said, swinging her bag over her shoulder. "But we’re going to a place I pick. And if I see a single person wearing a sweater tied around their shoulders, I’m leaving."
She had bumped into him—literally—outside a coffee shop in Salamanca. Her iced latte had done a graceful, tragic arc onto his suede loafers. Perdona Si Te Llamo Cayetano Raquel Tirado Fe...
The man looked down at his ruined shoes, then up at her. He had that effortless, slightly tousled hair that looked like it cost a hundred euros to maintain and a smile that suggested he’d never had a bad day in his life. "It’s fine," he said, his voice smooth and maddeningly polite. "They were getting old anyway. All three weeks of them." "Fine," she said, swinging her bag over her shoulder
"Right," she said, straightening up and handing him a soggy mass of napkins. "Perdona si te llamo 'Cayetano,' but I feel like you probably have a sailboat named after your grandmother and a very strong opinion on polo shirts." Her iced latte had done a graceful, tragic
"I am so, so sorry," Raquel stammered, frantically grabbing napkins. "I was looking at my phone, and I just—"
Raquel looked at her watch. She was supposed to be meeting friends in Malasaña, a world away from the starched shirts and signet rings of this neighborhood. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker of humor that didn't fit the 'Cayetano' mold.