Chapter 2
Chapter two
I recognize her the moment I sit down.
Not from photographs. Or puff pieces in travel magazines. We’ve never actually met, after all.
I know of Rosa Delgado because she fascinates me.
I’ve eaten at Delgado Cocina Espanola a few times. Never as Santiago Rivas, Master Sommelier. I dine the way some people go to church. Quiet, humbled, aching to feel something.
And I do. Oh, how I do.
Word of Rosa Delgado and her family restaurant reached me fast when it first opened. A native Spaniard doesn’t ignore it when the industry whispers of a woman cooking Spanish food better than most kitchens in Madrid. In Tacoma, no less.
I couldn’t stay away.
It wasn’t long before critics were clamoring to praise her. The past couple years, the powers that be are talking James Beard, and they’re right. Her food isn’t loud. It’s exact.
The lamb with Montsant still lives on my tongue, tannins cutting through fat before yielding to smoke. Her anchovy with Albarino has a purity so sharp I quoted it to a room of young sommeliers in Lyon. They scribbled notes as if I’d given them gospel.
Of course, she never noticed me. Or knew how much I admired her.. Rosa Delgado has no idea who I am.
Now she’s beside me on the way to Barcelona. My seatmate. What amazing luck.
Before now, I’ve only seen her in a chef coat with her hair under a scarf. Tonight, she looks no older than twenty. Curled under a blanket in comfortable clothing. Freckles scattered across her cheeks. Lips plush even when pressed tight. Not glamorous by any stretch, but stunning, nonetheless.
In her kitchen she commands with steel. Here she shrinks, almost as if she’s shy.
The contradiction fascinates me.
The attendant appears. “Ms. Delgado?”
“Cod. Pavlova. Albarino.” Rosa’s voice is calm, but I notice her fingers tighten on the edge of the blanket.
“The same.” I place my menu in the side pocket of my seat.
On the surface, it’s professional reflex. I’ve trusted her palate before, quoting her pairings to students as examples of fearless precision. Following her lead is a no-brainer. Even though its airplane food, what a cool opportunity for me to get her take on things.
When the attendant moves on, I catch Rosa’s profile. Eyes shadowed, lashes low. Awareness prickles across my skin.
“You vacationing in Barcelona” I make an attempt to soften the edges of my accent
She glances over, almost surprised to hear me address her. “Yes.”
“My home. Barcelona doesn’t wake in a rush. Mornings open slowly, like something meant to be savored.” I manage to stop myself from wincing. I didn’t mean for my words to come out like a pick-up line.
Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice my faux pas.
By the look in her eyes, I bet she’s thinking about La Boqueria before tourists crowd its aisles.
I picture her wandering through the market where scallops glint like half moons.
Jamón ibérico hangs overhead, fat shining under pale light.
Citrus lines up beside stacks of thick tomatoes.
Copper pans clang in the small bars tucked between stalls.
Everywhere, voices are low with anticipation of whatever treasure they’ve purchased.
“So true.” She fidgets with the hem of the blanket. “I studied there.”
Her gaze drops, as if she’s said too much, though she hasn’t uttered more than a few words. For the tiniest moment, I glimpse a woman who’d rather hide than be seen.
Still, I’ve opened the door and I don’t want it to close. Her opinions are a treasure. I want to hear her voice again, even if she guards herself carefully.
I could tell her I know her work, I’ve been to her restaurant and tasted her food. Spoken her name to my students. It’s too early, though, and my instinct tells me timing matters.
I won’t overwhelm or expose her, she’s minding her own business, after all. When we speak, I want her curious, not cornered.
Frankly, it surprises me how much I care. As a frequent flyer, most conversations are usually disposable. Weather. Professions. Fun facts about whatever the destination is. Polite noise forgotten before landing.
With Rosa Delgado beside me, I don’t want disposable. I want a thread strong enough to carry us through these hours in the air. Maybe even further. Letting this opportunity slip away s unthinkable.
I keep it simple. “Then you understand.”
Before she can reply, the food arrives. She takes a few polite bites, then sets her fork down. No grimace, no complaint, but the absence of pleasure is clear.
Rosa Delgado isn’t the type to fake delight. I admire her conviction.
“In Barcelona,” I lean toward her, “I always start at the markets. Taste what’s fresh, see what calls loudest.”
Her eyes flick to mine, curiosity edging past her guard. “La Boqueria is my favorite market in the world.”
Aha. Nailed it.
I nod. “Mine too. You can eat better at one of those counters than at half the fine-dining rooms in the city.”
“I miss eating food I didn’t make myself.” She gazes into the distance as if this is a revelation.
“Hmmm.” Her admission settles between us. “So you cook?”
A pause. Then, with a small lift of her chin, “I’m a chef.”
I let her claim the word. I don’t press, don’t mention I already know.
Not yet.
“And when you last ate someone else’s cuisine?” I probe.
She exhales, eyes lowering. “Every bite felt like a gift.”
“I hope Barcelona blesses you with many gifts.” I beam at her.
Her mouth twitches into almost a smile. Enough to undo me.
I lean closer. “I should introduce myself. Santiago Rivas. I cofounded Vinedo Hospitality Group, we oversee wine programs for properties across the U.S. and Europe. I spend more time in cellars and airports than at home.”
“Intriguing. What were you doing in Seattle” Her eyes widen. “By the way, I’m Rosa.”
I decide to toe my way in. “’I have a small condo here, though sadly work hasn’t allowed me to spend much time in the area yet. Now that I’ve met you, perhaps I’ll make more effort.”
Color blooms across her cheeks. She lowers her chin, self-consciously.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Rosa. All I meant was it’s very nice to meet you.” I shift gears.
“Uh, you didn’t, exactly. I’m a bit out of my element when I’m not working.” She glances away, gripping the blanket like I’m going to rip it off her.
God, I want to. She’s exquisite.
Desire surges through me. My cock thickens, tenting the wool of my pants as I imagine her lips wrapped around me, cheeks hollowing, tongue sliding along the sensitive vein under my crown. I imagine her pussy wet and open, my fingers buried. Her hips rocking until she gasps my name.
Jesus. I’ve got to retain some control. I grip the armrest, inhale, exhale. I’m not a man for one-night stands. They’ve always been hollow. I’m not great at relationships, either. I lost my marriage to airports, hotels, and empty beds.
It’s been so long and, admittedly, I want connection. Rosa Delgado, curling into herself beside me, makes me ache for it.
“How long will you be there?” I manage to say.
She frowns. “An entire month.”
“Me too. Should be more than enough time for you to remember how to taste.” My voice sounds gravelly. Pained.
This time, her breath falters. She catches the double edge, and I see the spark of interest before she looks down. My gut confirms she’s introverted not standoffish. Careful, but not closed.
The plates are taken away and the cabin dims. Rosa pulls the blanket tighter, trying to fold smaller. I want to tell her to stretch, to take space, to sprawl. Instead, I push the divider down all the way, lean close, and speak softly in a pitch for her alone to hear.
“If you want silence, I’m good at silence. If you want company, I’m good at conversation too.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, startled. Heat there, no denying.
Hope, maybe.
I sit back, though every muscle in me fights the distance.
My cock still throbs at the images in my mind.
Rosa straddling me in this wide leather seat, pussy sliding down onto me slow and wet while the cabin sleeps.
I’d keep Rosa steady on my lap until her lip caught between her teeth.
Her body trembling as she tries to keep her cries quiet.
The man across the aisle stirring in his sleep, unaware of our paradise inches away.
My pulse hammers but I manage to calm myself down. Now isn’t the time.
Barcelona waits. Markets at dawn. Wine she didn’t pour. Meals she didn’t labor over. Mornings she hasn’t allowed herself in years.
Maybe fate put her here, beside me, to remind her she doesn’t have to do everything alone. Maybe, for once, I’m meant to be the one who looks after her.
Rosa’s eyes shift toward me, hesitation laced with curiosity. Interest. I sense the question building on her tongue, the urge to close the silence between us.
Somehow, I keep control.
Hold still. Remain steady.
Giving her the space to choose.