Chapter 2 #2
But I can’t say any of that.
“Maybe I just haven’t found it yet,” I say finally.
She studies my face, then nods slowly. “Okay. But when you do find it, I hope it’s something good.”
I paste on a smile. “Yeah. Me too.” But I look away, because suddenly I’m in too deep, and the way she’s looking at me, all full of hope, as though she expects that dream to come to me any minute now—it’s too much. I run a hand over the back of my neck, adjust my hat. “Hey. You hungry?”
“Are you kidding? I just missed the boat to my never-ending shrimp buffet. I was saving up an appetite for that.”
I can’t help but chuckle as I grab her hand on instinct, redirecting our path. “Come on.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re at La Boqueria market, and Chloe is practically vibrating with excitement.
The market is an assault on the senses. Stalls overflow with fruit so bright it looks painted, like Hollywood props—strawberries the size of small apples, mangoes glowing orange-gold.
Legs of jamón ibérico dangle from hooks.
Fresh seafood sits on beds of ice, still smelling like the ocean.
The air is thick with competing scents: spices, fresh bread, roasting nuts, sweet fruit.
Chloe stops at every stall, taking photos, exclaiming over everything.
“Look at these tomatoes!”
“They’re tomatoes.”
“They’re perfect tomatoes!”
I’m smiling without meaning to.
We stop at a flower stall—massive bouquets of sunflowers and roses.
Chloe reaches out to touch a sunflower, her thumb brushing over the velvety petal.
The vendor catches my eye with a knowing smile, and before I can second-guess myself, I’m sliding two euros across the wooden cart.
The woman plucks out the sunflower and holds it out toward Chloe.
“What’s this for?” she asks.
I lean in. “Consolation prize. For missing your cruise.”
Chloe glances at me over her shoulder with a shy smile. Her cheeks flush. “Thank you. No one’s ever bought me flowers before.”
I frown. “Really?”
“Really. My sister used to get flowers all the time. But me?” She tries to play it off with a shrug. “I guess I must give off a too-practical-for-flowers sort of vibe.”
The notion is so wrong, I almost laugh. Nothing could be further from the truth.
She tucks the sunflower carefully into her purse, and we continue on, coming to a stop at a juice stand. Chloe orders in Spanish—halting but confident—and I’m impressed.
“You speak Spanish?”
“Un poco. Enough to order food and ask where the bathroom is.” She grins. “The important stuff.”
Our drinks arrive. She takes a sip and makes this sound that does something strange inside me. She really has no idea how adorable she is.
“This is amazing. Here, try it.”
I take a sip. Sweet, tart, tropical.
“Good, right?” she says.
“Really good.”
“Better than boring orange juice,” she says, glancing pointedly at my drink.
“Hey now,” I scoff. “Orange juice is classic.”
“Classic is code for ‘boring.’”
I laugh despite myself.
The light filtering through the market’s windows is turning rose-gold with the sunset. We keep walking, and I realize I can’t remember the last time I did something this simple. Just walking through a market with someone. No agenda. Just easy.
We finish our juices and head toward a tapas bar tucked into a corner—standing room only, chalkboard menu entirely in Catalan. Chloe orders confidently.
“What did you order?” I ask.
“Patatas bravas, croquetas, and pan con tomate—bread rubbed with tomato and olive oil. And Manchego cheese if they have it.”
“You know your tapas.”
“I did my research.”
The bartender slides plates across—golden croquetas, potatoes in spicy red sauce, thick bread slices glistening with tomato pulp and olive oil. The smell alone makes my mouth water.
We eat standing up, sharing plates.
“This is so good,” Chloe says. “Why doesn’t food taste like this at home?”
“Because you’re eating it in Barcelona.”
“Fair point. Everything tastes better when it’s slightly irresponsible.”
The bartender brings more food—grilled octopus, peppers—and we keep eating. The bar is getting busier, crowds gathering to watch a European football game on the TV overhead. Someone makes a goal and the bar erupts.
Chloe flinches.
“Wow, you really don’t like sports at all,” I say, chuckling.
She blushes, crinkling her nose. “Between you and me? Most of the athletes I’ve met are exactly what you’d expect. It’s exhausting.”
I think about my teammates. The locker-room talk. The swagger.
She’s not entirely wrong.
“Not all of them,” I say.
“Maybe not. But enough.” She pauses. “Sorry. I’m probably being judgy.”
“Little bit,” I tease.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking down at her hands. “I don’t mean to be. It’s just not my world.”
And there it is. The reminder that if she knew who I was, she’d probably put me in that exact category.
We finish eating, and despite her protests, I manage to snag the bill. The sun has set, and the streets outside are dark except for the glow of streetlamps. There’s a warm breeze, and for a moment we simply stand there, soaking in the evening.
“Walk?” I suggest.
“Lead the way.”
We walk through the Gothic Quarter, where the city feels timeless, where layers of history stack on top of each other. Past shops closing and restaurants opening. Under archways that have stood for centuries.
The air is cooler now, pleasant. Music winds through the old streets—a guitar, slow and melodic. The city smells like flowers and garlic and the sea.
And with every step, I’m thinking: Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the dream I didn’t know I had.
Which is ridiculous.
But it doesn’t feel ridiculous.
It feels like the truest thing I’ve thought in years.
CHLOE
I am absolutely, completely, maybe falling for someone I met a few hours ago.
Which is insane. I mean, clinically, certifiably insane.
It’s the kind of thing that happens in movies…but not to people like me in those movies. Not to the extras.
Which brings me back to the first point—you know, the insanity. Maybe none of this is real. Maybe I fell off the dock, chasing down the ship, and hit my head. Maybe this is all some sort of coma-induced fever dream, because there’s no way this is real.
The evening is in full tilt now, the old city all aglow. After leaving the tapas bar, we kept walking, taking in the sights between easy conversations until we wound up here, at this tiny restaurant tucked under one of the archways of Placa Reial.
The restaurant is small—maybe ten tables, half inside and half outside, where we are, under the stone archway.
Edison bulbs strung overhead cast this warm, vintage glow that makes everything look like a movie set.
Candles flicker on the tables in little glass holders, their flames dancing in the evening breeze.
Brody smiles at me, making my stomach do that swooping, sudden-drop flutter, and heat rushes to my cheeks. I have to admit, it feels pretty real.
He’s taken off the baseball cap, and I can see his face properly now.
Dark hair that’s slightly messy. Gray-blue eyes that seem to shift in the candlelight—storm clouds one second, ocean the next.
A small scar above his eyebrow. The shadow of stubble along his jaw that I definitely should not be thinking about touching.
The waiter drops off our food, and it’s incredible.
The fish is flaky and tender, tasting like the ocean but in a good way, not a fishy way.
The vegetables are caramelized and sweet, with crispy edges that crunch between my teeth.
The bread is warm and crusty, steam rising when I crack it open.
I take a greedy bite and actually die a little bit.
“This. Is…” I chef’s kiss my fingertips.
Brody chuckles, shaking his head slightly.
“What?” I say, covering my mouthful of the life-changing fish with my hand.
“Nothing.” He shrugs, but he’s full-on grinning now, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just you.”
I still, my heart catching for a moment, but he continues as though he hadn’t said anything.
“Tell me something,” he says, taking a sip of wine. “Something you haven’t told me yet.”
“I’ve basically told you my entire life story at this point. You know more about me than most people I’ve known for years.”
“Then tell me something small. Something nobody knows.”
Okay, Mr. Suave. I think about it, swirling my own wine and watching the candlelight reflect off the surface. “I guess…if you must know—”
“I really must,” he says, inclining his head.
“When I was in college…I got a C in my required physical credit. Not because I didn’t try…but because I was just so bad at it.”
Brody’s lips quirk. “What was the class?”
I hide behind my hands, my cheeks blazing against my palms. “Badminton.”
Brody coughs a laugh. “Wait. Seriously?”
“Don’t laugh! I was the only person in the class who didn’t get an A. It haunts me!” Even now, the memory of flailing around the gym only to get popped in the eyeball by a plastic birdie is a little too much to think about.
And he’s full-on, eyes-watering, face-red laughing.
“Brody!” I feign upset, scowling at him.
“I’m—I’m sorry, Chloe,” he says, catching his breath. “I shouldn’t laugh.”
I give him my most stern expression. “No, you shouldn’t.”
He reaches across the table, his fingertips brushing my wrist, and my gaze snaps to his. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
My little brain is empty. All thought has left the building.
What was I even pretending to be upset about?
Badminton? All I can think about is the way his fingertips trace over my wrist and curl into my hand, trailing electricity that seems to have completely short-circuited me. “It’s okay,” I think I hear myself say.
“Your turn,” I manage, my voice coming out slightly breathless. “Tell me something nobody knows.”