Chapter 4
Chapter four
When I sat next to Rosa Delgado, the chef whose food had lingered on my tongue longer than most memories, I’d imagined polite talk about flavor profiles and sourcing.
Safe conversation two professionals might have on a long flight.
Nothing more.
Instead, I find myself discussing things I’ve never talked about with anyone. Not even my own family.
“When I left New York after my divorce, I needed a drastic change,” I admit. “Seattle is close enough to Europe, far enough from the noise. And the rain… I actually love. It slows you down whether you want it to or not.”
The words are strange on my tongue. Soft, unguarded. The thing is, it wasn’t a marriage ending. It was war. Lawyers. Settlements. Years of building a business from nothing, only to watch half of it torn away. My name scraped off the door, clients siphoned, reputation bruised.
Starting over nearly broke me.
But here, beside Rosa, the ache turns quiet. Old resentments and fear recede, leaving a sense of peace I can’t explain. Like, maybe it all led me here. To this moment.
She doesn’t press. She doesn’t need to. Her eyes hold the same exhaustion I’ve carried for years. The kind ambition hides until it burns through every ounce of calm you have left.
For the first time in years, my heart is light.
I can’t name what this is. Connection? Recognition? Fate? All I know is it moves through me, steady as the engines beneath our feet.
Damn it, I don’t want this night to end.
She tips her head, eyes fixed on mine. “Tell me how…”
So I do. Slowly at first, then all at once. I tell her how Vinedo rose from the ashes of what I lost. How I rebuilt everything with steadier hands, fewer illusions, more scars. She listens without interrupting, tracing the rim of her glass as if it keeps her tethered to my voice.
I speak about my brother in Barcelona, though not specifically about the deal waiting there. I’m too superstitious.
For the first time, however, I admit aloud how tired I am of chasing success. How focusing only on business leaves me lonely.
Her gaze never drifts. She listens like no one ever has. Like every word matters.
Somewhere mid-story, her eyes grow heavy, blinking slower with each breath. She fights it by asking questions. Small, probing, thoughtful things. But, her voice fades softer each time.
When her lashes lower for the third time, I know the battle’s lost.
Her eyes flutter closed midsentence, then snap open again.
I can’t ignore the fatigue dragging her down. It lives in her posture, even when she’s lying down. Her voice is hoarse. Gravelly.
She’s fought exhaustion throughout our delightful conversation because she’s built for endurance.
As disappointed as I am, even steel bends.
“You should rest.” I reach over and tuck her hair behind her ear.
She shakes her head, stubborn, though the corners of her mouth betray her with a tired slant. “I’m fine.”
“Rosa,” I soothe. “Sleep. There’s always tomorrow.”
She exhales, long and low, and lets the fight slip from her body.
I lean in and press my lips to her forehead.
Her lashes flutter once. Then she sinks, steady breathing pulling her under.
A quiet protectiveness threads through me.
Her body softens into the seat, tension unwinding at last. The strand of dark hair slips free again, catching the light from the aisle. Her lips part with each breath. A faint sound escapes, something between a sigh and surrender. The pulse at her throat beats slow, steady, alive.
She looks younger like this. Not in years, but in consequence. The exhaustion she wears like armor slides off her shoulders, leaving only peace. I want to keep her in this safe space, untouched by noise, obligation, or anything draining her brilliance.
“I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time,” I whisper. “You’ve surprised me more than I imagined.”
For years, I’ve been surrounded by people, but alone. This is different. I can’t wait until she wakes up so we can talk again.
The cabin vibrates with white noise. I let my head fall back, though my eyes refuse to close.
Barcelona waits. For once, I don’t think of it as a destination for meetings and cellars. I picture places I want her to see. Not the usual pilgrimage spots. She deserves better.
I visualize us strolling the cloisters of the Pedralbes Monastery, where silence is cloaked in velvet and light breaks through gothic arches.
Or the hills above the city, Tibidabo rising with its strange mix of church and amusement park.
Not glamorous, but honest. We’d stand at the rail with Barcelona spread beneath us, red roofs tumbling toward the sea.
In Gràcia, small plazas would claim her heart.
The kind where old men sip vermut while children chase soccer balls.
Rosa doesn’t need Michelin stars, she needs a clay dish of bombas. Garlic still hot in oil. Laughter filling the square.
Maybe I could take her farther to the fishing village of Cadaqués, whitewashed above the sea, salt crusting the air. Or inland, to Rioja, where vines claw into slate and the wines taste like the earth itself refused to give up. Perhaps I could show her my family’s old vineyard…
All these places flash through me, but what stays is the image of her smiling.
Rosa, unburdened.
Rosa, fed without lifting a pan.
Rosa, definitively cared for.
I’ve never let myself imagine a future with someone this soon. With other women, desire has been singular. Usually just sex. A temporary high of connection.
I want Rosa, of course. God. My cock has been hard all night. But, my stronger urge is to protect her. Give her a safe space where she can enjoy life and doesn’t need to prove herself.
Her hand shifts in sleep, fingers curling toward the edge of my seat. I almost cover them with mine, but stop.
She deserves rest without interruption.
So, I close my eyes at last, surrendering to the rhythm of her breaths, the steady thrum of engines, the pull of possibility.
Barcelona waits.
For the first time in years, I look forward to something more than work when we land.