First Class Fling: Santiago & Rosa (Hearts Without Borders #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

I’m burned out.

A woman with charred edges, a hollow center, and so bone tired no amount of sleep will ever make a difference.

It’s the price I pay for perfect service, glowing reviews, and a restaurant people whisper about as the future of Spanish dining in the Pacific Northwest.

Sadly, I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a meal without reducing it to numbers on a spreadsheet.

All of it’s been worth it, I think. Hard work has played a huge part in rebuilding my family’s legacy.

Delgado Cocina Espanola started as my father’s dream thirty years ago.

A kitschy Spanish-themed diner complete with flamenco posters on the walls, paella drowning in saffron, and laminated menus curling at the corners.

The restaurant was our entire family life.

My brother, sister, and I worked alongside my parents from the time I could walk.

I loved it. Something was missing.

At eighteen I bolted to find my roots. First in Madrid then Seville and finally Barcelona, where, for three years, I learned how to cook from some of the finest chefs in the world.

I survived kitchens designed to break me and came home with scars, burns, skill, and a hunger to tear the old place down to its bones.

It took some convincing, but my parents believed in my vision and we gutted it. Modernized the space into a fine-dining establishment complete with season-driven menus and wine lists celebrating Spain using ingredients from the Pacific Northwest.

Now critics come from around the world. Foodies beg for reservations. My father, who should have retired years ago, still takes care of the customers while I oversee the rest of the details from top to bottom.

Ten years later, and I don’t know which end is up.

Somehow, my family noticed. My mom and dad conspired with Marcella, my older sister, lawyer, best friend, and eternal thorn.

The three of them staged a kitchen ambush last week, blocking the walk-in door until I promised not only to take a vacation, but to stay out of the restaurant for an entire month.

Which is how I ended up here at SeaTac, boarding a flight to Barcelona clutching a ticket reading Seat 2C.

The first-class cabin glows with gold light, a cathedral of quiet wealth. Suites are arranged 1–2–1. One by each window, two in the center, another single across. I slide into the center seat. The soft, buttery leather hugs me in a way the booths back home never do.

A flute of champagne appears before I can protest. I take a sip. Dry, tart, faintly apple. I set it down fast, scared I’ll start to enjoy myself and then realize, I’m supposed to be having fun.

I take another swig as my phone buzzes three times in succession.

Marcella: No emails. Your job is to sleep, eat and hopefully find someone to tickle your kitty.

Mamà: Have fun! We love you.

Papà: Don’t worry about anything. Enjoy your time away!

God love the three of them. They’re annoying as fuck but their hearts are in the right place. I switch my phone off. If they want me to relax, I’m gonna start now by ghosting them for doing this to me.

The overhead clicks shut across from me, causing me to glance over.

A man slides into 2D next to me.

Time slows, rewinds, rearranges. He’s tall, six feet at least. Long lines and controlled movement. Olive skin. Dark-brown hair, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Sleeves rolled, revealing forearms meant for both tasting and teasing.

My breath catches unexpectedly. I have to shift in my seat because my pussy pulses and my panties become damp.

No.

Not happening. This trip isn’t about men. My history proves I pick disasters. Line cooks who drink through prep. Food vendors who sob like babies when I’m too busy to spend time with them. Bartenders who kiss and steal in the same breath.

I glance at my reflection in the black screen across from me.

In the real world, I have no apron to hide behind.

My wardrobe is abysmal. Today I’m wearing worn black jeans, a fitted tank under a hoodie and plain boots.

My hair is twisted into a high knot, held together by a giant hair claw.

Without any makeup, freckles are visible across my cheeks.

I’m not glamorous. Certainly not first-class sleek. Especially next to this guy. He exudes expensive. Women probably trip over themselves for a smile I haven’t seen yet.

In any case, it’s obvious he belongs up here in the bougie seats, not me.

I try not to stare as he settles in without fuss, like the world makes space for him. He smells faintly of cedar and fresh air.

The divider between our seats sits half-raised, a beige suggestion of privacy.

I could lift it. I don’t.

He doesn’t either.

The plane pushes back. Engines growl, the cabin angles up, and we lift into the night.

To keep my mind off my handsome neighbor, I pick up the glossy, bound menu to peruse. The pages promise gourmet offerings like salmon blini, beef tenderloin, seared cod, pavlova. Fancy food designed to seduce passengers into forgetting they’re eating reheats at thirty thousand feet.

I can’t help but smirk. My chef brain hungers for something else. Barcelona tapas, savory paella, seafood markets. The things I should have researched, planned, anticipated. I didn’t have the bandwidth. By the time Marcella forced this ticket down my throat, I was too fried to arrange anything.

So here I am, a chef without a plan, hungry without knowing what for.

The attendant returns. “Ms. Delgado?”

“Cod. Pavlova. Albarino.” I decide on the fly.

She turns to him.

His voice pours low, Rioja-rich. “The same.”

Good God. The accent. My nipples throb. My pussy clenches again, sharp and insistent.

I stare straight ahead, heat flushing my skin.

Silence stretches. Not awkward, charged. At least for me. Every nerve is attuned to him. The warmth radiating from his body. The faint scrape of his watch on the leather armrest. Even the rhythm of his breath.

I find myself imagining him leaning closer. His lips brush my ear as his hand slides over mine. He presses me back into this wide leather seat, parting my legs under the blanket. Sinks his manicured fingers into my pussy until I’m writhing at thirty thousand feet.

The visual slams through me so hard I gasp.

Mortified, I grab my champagne and drain what’s left. My cheeks blaze. If he looked at me now, he’d know.

Crossing my legs tight, I force my gaze to the screen in front of me where the tiny airplane charts our journey.

“You vacationing in Barcelona?” The man’s accent cradles each word.

I peer over. “Yes.”

“Ahh. My home. In Barcelona, mornings don’t rush you. They unfold leisurely, like something waiting to be savored.”

Jesus.

Heat shoots through me, even though his description is a bit cheesy. He doesn’t know me, can’t—but with two sentences he’s named the city as I remember it. Butter bleeding from fresh pastry, shutters banging, oranges stacked like suns in wooden crates.

Of course, he could mean something entirely different…

“So true.” I swallow, pushing the thought out of my mind. “I studied there.”

His mouth curves, one corner only, a smile built for secrets. “Then you understand.”

Oh, I do. Too much. My body is still whirring from the fantasy I didn’t mean to conjure. His hand under my blanket, spreading me and stroking my clit until I beg for him to make me come in gasps.

My heart pounds low and hot. My panties are soaked.

It’s absurd. I don’t know his name. He could be married. He could be the kind of man who flirts with women on every flight and forgets them before landing.

Beside him, I feel like a waif. Not glamorous. Not polished. Certainly not the kind of woman men like him notice.

Still, I can’t deny how turned on I am. Proof my body has already betrayed me.

Maybe Marcella was correct. I should open myself up. She took a chance and is now married to a gorgeous doctor who’s eight years younger than her. I grip the armrest, desperate to anchor myself.

Coming back to reality, who am I kidding? This guy is a stranger on a plane. I have too much responsibility. I can’t afford to make any mistakes. I’m spending my time in Spain eating and drinking. Research.

The smart move is obvious. Pull out my headphones, close the divider, throw on a movie and crash until we land.

Keep this man a beautiful question mark I never try to answer.

Except…it’s hard to ignore the buzz in my body and the ache for more than food or sleep. I’d be lying if I denied the way my heart yearns for someone beside me and how my soul whispers about a family I’ve never dared to imagine.

I shut my eyes, draw in a breath, and remind myself silence is safe.

The truth presses hard in my ribs.

I don’t want safe. I want to fall into the abyss.

The question is, am I brave enough?