Chapter 1 #2
She notices me looking and snaps the sketchbook shut, shoving it back into her purse. Her cheeks flush pink.
“Sorry,” she mutters. “Just…making sure everything’s there.”
I want to ask about the drawings. Want to tell her what I just saw was amazing.
But something in the way she’s holding the purse now—close, protective—tells me that topic’s off the table.
So I don’t say anything.
But I don’t forget it.
“And?” I ask.
She nods, still looking dazed. “Yeah. Everything. Even my—” She pulls out her phone and lets out a shaky laugh.
“Even my phone. Which is a miracle, because I am so bad at keeping track of things.” She glances at her watch, and her eyes widen slightly.
“Oh. I should probably—I mean, I have some time, but”—she looks up at me—“can I at least buy you a coffee? You literally saved my vacation. That has to be worth at least a cortado.”
I find myself smiling. “Aren’t you going to be late?”
“Late for—” She checks her watch again, and her face goes pale. “Oh. Oh. Yes. Very late. Extremely late. My sister’s going to kill me.” She groans. “I got so distracted I completely lost track of—”
“Where are you headed?”
“Port Vell. The cruise ship. It’s leaving at six, and I have no idea where I am right now.”
I glance at my own watch. It’s just past five. “I know a shortcut,” I hear myself say. Followed by a very bad idea…“I can walk you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine. I’m heading that direction anyway.” (I’m not. Not even remotely close. But I tell myself it’s just a small detour. And then back to help Dad.)
Her face lights up. “Are you for real right now? Because you’d be literally saving my life. Again. That has to be some kind of record.”
“Glad to help.”
“I’m Chloe,” she says, sticking out her hand. “Chloe Dawson. And you are officially my hero.”
“No hero, just Brody,” I say, taking her hand, her soft fingertips brushing my callused palm.
“Brody,” she says like she’s testing it out. “That’s a good name. Fits the whole vigilante-in-a-baseball-cap vibe you’ve got going.”
I laugh despite myself. First genuine laugh I’ve had in weeks.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get you to that ship.”
We start walking, and she falls into step beside me. The crowds thin slightly as we move away from the densest part of La Rambla. The buildings here are older, painted in faded yellows and peaches, balconies overflowing with plants. The air smells like jasmine.
She’s babbling—something about getting lost looking for a vintage shop and wandering through the Gothic Quarter taking photos—and I’m only half listening.
Because the other half of me is noticing things. The way she talks with her hands. The freckles on her shoulders. The fact that she doesn’t recognize me—doesn’t know I’m Brody Kane, professional hockey player.
She’s looking at me like I’m just…Brody.
Some guy who rescued her purse.
Just Brody.
I can’t even remember the last time that happened.
My phone buzzes again. The weight of the backpack tugs against my shoulders, a reminder of where I should be, what I should be doing.
I silence it without looking.
Just ten minutes, I tell myself.
Dad’s kneecaps probably won’t get busted if he waits another ten minutes. Besides, it might be good for him. A night in the “clink,” so to speak.
Ten minutes before I go back to being the guy who fixes everything.
What’s the harm in that?
CHLOE
Okay, so here’s the thing about being rescued by a ridiculously attractive stranger in Barcelona: It does not happen to people like me.
People like me—Chloe Dawson, chronic overplanner, professional people pleaser, girl who once got left behind at a rest stop on a family road trip for two hours before anyone noticed—do not get swept off their feet by handsome heroes who chase down thieves to help them.
And yet.
Here I am, walking down a cobblestone street in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, next to a guy who’s giving off major Captain America-in-hiding vibes with that baseball cap pulled low over his brow.
And sure, he’s handsome, all tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair, a little stubble around the edges.
But it’s his eyes that keep catching me off guard.
Gray-blue, like storm clouds over the ocean, with this intensity that makes me feel like when he’s looking at me, he’s actually seeing me.
Not looking through me or past me, but at me.
Which is…new.
And slightly terrifying.
Or maybe it’s just the adrenaline working its way out of my system. That would explain why my heart is still doing that weird fluttery thing and I got all weak in the knees at the way his voice softened when he asked if I was okay.
Yeah. Definitely the adrenaline.
The street we’re on now is quieter than La Rambla, the buildings pressing close on either side, painted in faded peaches and buttery yellows.
Wrought-iron balconies spill over with geraniums and trailing ivy, and someone’s laundry hangs from a line overhead, white sheets fluttering in the breeze.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, willing it to stay put for once.
Come on, hair. Hot guy here, work with me.
“So you planned this whole trip?” he asks, breaking into my self-deprecating dialogue, and I startle.
“Oh—yeah. I mean, I’m an event planner,” I say, waving a hand.
I can’t help the way I gesture when I speak, no matter how much I try.
I stopped fighting it a long time ago. “Well, trying to be an event planner. I just started my own company a couple months ago, Ever After Events—super cheesy name, I know—and my sister’s wedding is kind of my big debut.
” I shrug. “This whole bridesmaids’ cruise thing was my idea.
A Pinterest-worthy “bridal-cation,” if you will.
Barcelona to Mallorca, with every gorgeous stop in between.
” A quiet laugh escapes me and I add, “I think I might be better at planning other people’s experiences than actually participating in them. ”
I’m rambling. I know I’m rambling. It’s what I do when I’m nervous. Or excited. Or existing.
Brody’s mouth quirks up at the corner. Not quite a smile, but close. “Sounds like a good idea.”
“Tell that to my sister when I show up late.” I adjust the strap of my purse—my miraculously recovered purse—and feel my face heat up. “I got a little sidetracked at the Mercat de la Boqueria…”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
“It does if I miss the cruise ship departure.”
He glances at me, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “How late are you?”
I check my watch, and my stomach does a little flip.
“Um. Pretty late. But the ship leaves at six, and it’s only five thirty.
So…I’ve got time. Probably. Maybe. Thanks to my superhero tour guide.
” I glance at him, my face burning. I cannot believe I said that.
But he’s still smiling, shaking his head with a chuckle in a way that gives me an ounce of reassurance that maybe, just maybe, he sees me as charming—not chaotic.
We turn onto a wider street, and the sun pours over the old cobblestone, sifting through the trees that line the buildings. The shadows almost look like works of art themselves, blending with the art of the ancient city. It’s enough to steal my breath away.
“Your sister must be excited,” Brody says. “About the wedding.”
“Oh, she’s Thrilled. Capital T. She’s marrying this hockey player—Derek something, I can never remember his last name—and apparently, he’s a big deal in the sports world, which means the wedding has to be ‘perfect.’” I make air quotes with my fingers, nearly smacking a passing tourist in the process. “Sorry! Perdón!”
The tourist—an older woman with a sun hat the size of a small planet—glares at me. Fair.
“Anyway,” I continue, words pouring out of me.
And I know, I know, I’m oversharing. But this guy—nope, the adrenaline, remember?
—makes my heart race, and I just can’t seem to stop.
“My sister has very high expectations. For the wedding, for this trip, for…everything, really. That’s her fun thing.
You know, that thing everyone’s got going for them.
Oh, not the high-expectations part. The living-up-to-them part.
She’s smart and successful, and she’s got her life together.
And I’m the one who—” I stop myself before I say something pathetic about being overlooked. “Anyway, she’s just…she’s great.”
“You sound like a good sister.”
The comment catches me off guard. I glance at him, and he’s looking straight ahead, but there’s something genuine in his voice that makes my chest feel tight.
“And you?” he asks.
“Hmm?”
He glances at me, turning my little heart into a pathetic glob in my chest. “What’s your fun thing?”
“Oh…um…I’m”—a chronic people pleaser? An absolute disaster?—“great at impressions.”
Brody casts me a skeptical look. “Really?”
“Oh yeah. One hundred percent.”
“So let’s hear it.”
“Okay…but you asked for it.” I cup my hands over my mouth, breathing heavily with a little coo-choo as I inhale. “Luke…I am your father!”
Brody’s brows lift dramatically. “That was…terrible.”
“What?! No.” I try my best to hold a scowl. “That was America’s Got Talent–worthy. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
And then he laughs. The sound is warm and genuine and does absolutely nothing to help my “this is just adrenaline” theory.
I wait for him to catch his breath before asking, “What about you? What’s your thing?”
“I play—” He stops, like he’s reconsidering what he was about to say. “I’m…between things right now.”
“Between things. That’s delightfully vague.”
“What can I say? I’m a man of mystery.”
“A mysterious man who knows Barcelona and has the reflexes of a parkour expert. Very suspicious.”
“Maybe I’m Batman.”
I laugh—a real laugh, not the polite one I use at family gatherings. “Barcelona Batman. I’d watch that movie.”
“It’d be very confusing. Batman, but with tapas.”
“The Dark Knight Rises…to get second breakfast.”