51. Alina
51
ALINA
T omas steers me into an empty cafe. For a few minutes, I just cry, and he holds me, his expression concerned. Finally, my sobs die down. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “My mascara ran on your jacket. It’s ruined.”
“I don’t give a damn about my jacket,” he responds. “What did he say to you?”
“Nothing new. He offered me money to pretend to be Damir Malinov’s fiancée. His first offer was twenty thousand euros, and then when I turned him down, he increased it to a hundred thousand.” I smile bitterly. “He didn’t even spell my last name correctly. That’s how little he cared.”
Tomas’s lips tighten, but he doesn’t say anything.
“So I told him I was done.” I wipe the last of the tears away impatiently. “You knew who he was all along. You told me, and I didn’t listen. I should have.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I wish I had been wrong. I wish, more than anything else, Ali, that he was worthy of you.”
He’s looking really worried, and I don’t want him to be. “Forget him. I still have some Valencian things on my to-do list. Your sister told me I had to drink horchata and eat fartóns. I have no idea what fartóns are, but I’m in.” I force a smile on my face. “Besides, I can’t go back to your parents’ house with red eyes.”
“Don’t forget your red nose,” he quips, though the concern doesn’t fully leave his eyes. “If we’re heading toward the market for horchata, I have a fun surprise. I texted Gabriel about La Llotja yesterday, and he used his influence and arranged for us to visit.” He gets to his feet and holds out his hand for me. “Want to go see it?”
La Llotja is spectacular. It’s also completely deserted. Since the building is under renovation, there should be workers there. Maybe they’re all at esmorzaret because there’s no one to be seen. I wander through the large trading hall with its carved pillars and high arched ceilings, marveling at the five-hundred-year-old building, but my favorite part is the courtyard filled with orange trees.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I tell Tomas, sitting on a bench in the courtyard and taking it all in. “This is… special.”
“It is,” he agrees, but he’s not looking at the building.
He’s looking at me.
My heart leaps in my throat. Suddenly, I have to know. It doesn’t matter if the answer is going to break my heart—I can’t take the uncertainty any longer. “Why did you come to Valencia with me, Tomas? Why are you helping me?”
“You asked me that two nights ago,” he replies. “My answer is the same now as it was then. Isn’t it obvious?”
This time, I don’t chicken out. “Not to me,” I whisper. “Tell me why, Tomas, because I need the words. I need to hear them.”
“Ali,” he murmurs, pulling me into his arms. And it feels like home. He brushes a kiss over my lips, a warm kiss that makes my hopeful heart flutter to life. “Dolcezza, I’m crazy about you. I’ve been crazy about you from the moment you stared at me from across the gym, fury in your eyes, and told me to step into the ring. I love you. I love you when you’re plotting to poison me?—”
His declaration takes my breath away, and a big, happy smile breaks out on my face. I take a deep, orange-scented breath, joy exploding inside my heart. “I wasn’t going to actually do it.”
“Always good to hear,” he quips. “I love you so much that I’m here in Valencia, braving my terrifying family?—”
“I’m going to interrupt once again to tell you that your family is perfect, and I won’t tolerate any slander of them.”
“They showed up with a banner to the airport,” he points out. “My mother has us searching for engagement party venues. Has she stopped to ask us if we want an engagement party? No, she has not.” A smile softens his eyes. “They already like you much more than they like me.”
“That’s not true.”
He laughs. “Yes, it is. You’re the reason I’m finally back in Valencia, and they know it.” He laces his fingers in mine and brings my ring finger up to his lips. “I gave you my grandmother’s ring, Ali. This might be a fake engagement, but what I feel for you is real.”
The sun is out from behind a cloud. It’s warm and quiet and peaceful, and it’s just the two of us here, and I still can’t quite believe it. I’ve fallen in love with him, and he feels the same way. He loves me. Tomas Aguilar, with his bespoke suits and those grey eyes that see far too much, loves me. I want to pinch myself and scream for joy and run around in giddy circles, giggling madly in sheer happiness.
“I thought you wanted something casual.”
“I thought you wanted something casual,” he replies accusingly, and then we both start to laugh. “Why didn’t you just ask?”
“I wasn’t ready to hear the answer,” I admit sheepishly. “You kept doing nice things?—”
I hear a loud, sharp sound, and an unripe orange in the tree directly above me explodes into pulp. I barely have time to react before Tomas pushes me to the ground and throws his body over mine.
“Sniper,” he says into my ear. I can feel the thump of his heartbeat against my chest. “From one of the upper floor windows. Stay down.”
Someone is shooting at us.
In a supposedly safe Valencia.
How is this possible?