Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Two Weeks Later
She’s nervous, I can tell.
She’s never met the parents of a man she’s seeing before. Rosa’s hand rests in mine as we climb the worn stone stairs to my mother’s apartment.
It’s been two weeks since we spent nearly twenty-four hours lost in each other’s bodies, giving each other pleasure beyond anything I’d ever imagined. In those passionate moments, our hearts twined together, changing our lives forever.
Words weren’t necessary. We both knew we were hopelessly, desperately in love.
Then came the shower. I can’t even explain it except to say it was transcendent. As we were drying off, it all spilled out of me. Against all convention, I confessed how deeply I’d fallen with her. How I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.
She tearfully reciprocated. “I love you more than I ever imagined possible. I never believed a man like you existed for me. I don’t want to spend a moment without you ever again.”
Immediately, I asked her to abandon her rental and move into my apartment. Her eyes lifted and she agreed.
No flourish. No drama.
It’s been two weeks since we moved her things to my place and I don’t have one regret. She’s perfect.
We’re perfect.
We’ve wandered the cloisters of the Pedralbes Monastery in silence thick as velvet while light spilled through arches like some kind of blessing. She touched every stone as if it might remember her.
In Gràcia, she cried over a clay dish of bombas still crackling from the fryer, eyes shining as she said it made her remember why people linger at small tables long after the plates are cleared.
She tasted the vermut, smiled through her tears, and told me she’d forgotten food could make her emotional.
One night in the Gothic Quarter, I brought her to a restaurant few ever find—no sign, no menu, no reservations.
It opens only for those who know to ask.
The chef greeted me with a nod, poured us cava from his private cellar, and left us in the courtyard while he cooked.
We ate beneath wisteria, each course arriving without introduction.
I adored watching her curiosity bloom into pleasure as she tasted each dish.
When the plates were cleared, she leaned close and whispered, “You’ve ruined me for ordinary meals. ”
A few days later, we drove north into Priorat through vines twisting around veins of dark slate.
I brought her to a small family winery I’ve loved for years.
The owners poured from their secret barrels, smiling as they handed us glasses of deep, red wine.
Rosa closed her eyes, and tasted. I watched her shoulders ease, her mouth curve, and the spark of wonder return to her expression.
Watching her fall in love again with wine and food, and the part of herself she’d buried under work for so long, is better than any vintage I’ve ever tasted.
The hunger for each other gets stronger with every passing day. It’s always lingering under the surface, steady as breath. When it hits, we give in. We can’t help it. Against warm stones in an alley, on rooftops above the city, a sailboat under the moon, between rows of vines before sunrise.
The world before her doesn’t exist anymore. She’s awakened a need so deep it shakes me to the core every time I touch her. Watching her open to me again and again is the purest thing I’ve ever been blessed to experience.
I’m powerless to resist.
Now I’m bringing her home to my family. There’s no reason to wait. Rosa isn’t someone I’m dating. We’ve skipped over unnecessary formalities.
She’s it. My forever person.
As we near the door, I tighten my grip, hoping to reassure her my people will adore her.
She’s gorgeous in a slate-gray linen dress we bought in town today. Her hair’s twisted up and she’s wearing a bit of makeup. There’s such softness to her tonight, but she’s not fragile. Rosa’s simply free of stress and worry.
It looks terrific on her.
My mother’s apartment smells like olive oil and saffron.
She’s been cooking all day, you can literally taste it in the air.
Roasted tomato and saffron bubble in the iron of a pan she’s had since before I was born.
All her windows are open to the street, laundry sways across balconies.
Flamenco guitar music plays on the radio.
This is my childhood and I’m proud to share it with my girl.
The door swings open before I knock. Matteo stands there, broad and composed in his usual lawyer-calm, eldest-son surety. He gives me a long, meaningful look, then turns to Rosa.
“So,” he smiles as he takes her hand, “you’re the woman responsible for my brother disappearing off the grid.”
Rosa giggles. “I’m pretty sure he responds to texts. Eventually.”
Matteo holds her gaze a beat longer than strictly necessary, reading her. I watch his expression shift. Approval. Respect. Curiosity.
Good.
We move inside. My mother’s in the kitchen, stirring the paella. She looks up and wipes her hands before crossing the tiled floor with arms outstretched.
“La meva nena estimada,” she says in Catalan. “Ets molt benvingut en aquesta casa.”
She kisses both of Rosa’s cheeks. Rosa replies back perfectly, not showy, but fluent, and my mother’s brows lift with pleased surprise.
My heart fills with joy.
Matteo’s wife, Sofía, arrives with their kids, Mateo Jr., nine, and Clara, six.
Sofía is sharp and elegant, her energy calm in the middle of their noise.
The kids make themselves at home right away.
Junior pulls Rosa toward the shelves to show her photos from his soccer season, while Clara climbs into her lap and starts weaving her fingers through Rosa’s hair.
Rosa lets her. No hesitation. No discomfort.
When Sofía joins them, Rosa leans in to compliment her gold hoop earrings. A gesture so simple and sincere I watch how quickly she’s pulled into Rosa’s orbit.
I knew they’d love her, but Rosa fits here better than I could have imagined. Effortlessly.
We eat on the terrace with the sun setting behind us. Ma lifts her glass, eyes shining in the soft light. “To your father, Gabriel. He would have loved this day.”
We all raise our glasses. The clink is small but full.
The paella sits at the center of the table, golden rice studded with shrimp and mussels, the edges crisp where the pan met the flame.
Rosa takes her first bite unhurriedly, eyes closing as she tastes. “It reminds me of my father,” she says after a moment. “He used to cook on Sundays. Nothing fancy, but the house smelled like this.”
Ma reaches across and touches her hand. “Then you understand. Food is love made visible.”
Rosa nods, eyes soft, voice low. “Exactly.”
Later, after the dishes are cleared and washed, I find myself on the balcony alone with my mother. She stands with her back to the city, the lights of Barcelona glittering behind her like a quiet truth.
“She loves you,” she says without preamble.
I blink. “Yes—”
“It’s written all over her. In the way she listens. In the way she looks at you when you’re not speaking.”
I say nothing.
Then she turns fully, eyes narrowing in the way only mothers can manage. “She’s the one, isn’t she?”
It’s not a question.
I stare past her at the city streets I grew up on. The squares I used to play in, the hills we’ll climb together one day. I see Rosa in all of it now. Her laughter in Gràcia. Her wonder in Cadaqués. Her joy stitched into every place we’ve touched.
“Yes,” I say. “She is.”
My mother doesn’t smile. She steps forward and kisses my forehead like she used to when I was small.
Somehow, her acceptance of the woman I love makes it real.