Chapter 12

12

L uke was at the designated corner at 16:51. He triple-checked it was the right intersection. There were so many narrow streets in that part of the city, and he wanted to be sure.

He would never admit it to anyone, but even if what he'd managed to pack could be described as meager , he'd changed his clothes three times before leaving the hotel to head there that afternoon.

He'd only been somewhat satisfied with his sartorial selection after calling his youngest sister, Martina, with the excuse of how poorly he'd readied his luggage for his last-minute work trip. She was four years older than him and worked as a wardrobe coordinator in reality TV.

Martina had been initially suspicious but didn't press him much. It was true that he hadn't sought her advice on how to dress since he was at uni, but it was also true that he'd never been out of the country for business. So she seemed to deduce Luke wanted to look the best in the hip Mediterranean city.

Luke's sister had told him to keep it simple and he'd listened. He was feeling confident in the same pair of dark jeans he'd worn the day before paired with an open black-and-white checked shirt over a gray T-shirt.

Then he saw Sol approaching and felt simultaneously hot and underdressed.

She had on a leather jacket over a flowy long black and blush-pink dress tightened at the waist. She walked the tiled street in her high-heeled espadrilles with the confidence of someone wearing the most comfortable sneakers. Barcelona clearly had a sunny dress code that no one had bothered sharing with Luke.

"Hola," she said.

Barcelona was doing something to him, and he almost replied ciao even though he never spoke Italian outside of his parents' place. He was a bit disappointed that she hadn't greeted him with her signature two kisses on the cheeks though.

She signaled the way they were going, and he followed.

"We're going to the sit-down location of this bakery," she said. "It isn't the most charming spot in the city, but the pastries are incredible and it's easy to find a table and have a calm conversation away from the hordes of tourists."

He nodded, trying to no avail to find something clever to say.

"Do you eat everything?" Sol asked him when they entered the bakery.

"Yes," Luke replied hesitantly, feeling there was probably only one right answer to that question.

"Do you eat pork?" she added curtly.

"Pork? Yes." He was a bit confused, but Sol didn't clarify.

She talked to the person behind the counter in her characteristic commanding-yet-polite Catalan flow.

"Do you want something to drink other than water? The tea is mostly tepid, insipid water in this city," she said to him in English.

"No tea then, ta." That was the most decisive he'd been with her that afternoon, and he thought she smiled at his words.

He tried paying, but Sol didn't permit it. She played hostess to perfection, paid, grabbed a tray carrying two round pastries covered in powdered sugar and two bottles of water, and guided them to one of the upstairs tables away from the diverse crowd of families and tourists having an afternoon snack downstairs.

"This is an ensa?mada," she told him, pronouncing every syllable in the word while looking at him from across the table. Luke hadn't seen her hazel eyes from such a close distance before. They were warm in a way he wasn't quite prepared to take in. "It's made with sa?m, which is basically pork lard, that's why I asked. Also, this is originally from Mallorca, so please don't do the whole ‘I had this typical Barcelona pastry called ensa?mades' thing."

"I won't." He smiled and tried the pastry, convinced he was going to cover his clothes and face in powdered sugar. "This is so good!"

"Right?" she said, and he almost felt as if he'd passed a test. "Where did you eat?" she asked him between ensa?mada bites.

"Lunch? Some place around the corner from the hot?—"

"Some random place?!" Sol protested. There it was again—that elevated tone of voice that he was starting to take to, and which was much more common in her native Catalan and Spanish but could still emerge in English. "I sent you a detailed list with several restaurant recommendations this morning. There was a wide range of prices and types of food. I even added vegetarian, pescatarian, and gluten-free options, and you go to a random place and have an unremarkable meal?!"

"Sorry, I didn't know I should be?—"

"Treating each opportunity to eat in this city as if it's a religious event?" she finished.

"Yes…"

"Now you know." It sounded a bit like a warning. "Don't waste any other meals in my city."

He nodded and looked at her intently. He got the message. Also, those amber flecks in her brown eyes were doing something to his core.

"Since we're on the subject of rituals. Where do I get a proper English Breakfast tea in this city?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Nowhere. My place is probably the best option really," Sol said matter-of-factly.

"Can I come to your place for breakfast tomorrow then?" He smoldered at her, his charming mode fully on.

"No, but I can recommend a couple of good enough places. I'll text them to you later." For the first time that afternoon, she wasn't making eye contact.

"Which one of your restaurant recommendations should I put on top of my list? And is there any chance you'd go there with me?" he asked. "You've seen that I need all the guidance I can get."

"You're unrelenting." She smiled at him, cleaning some powdered sugar from her cheek.

"You were the one asking me out yesterday!"

"As you probably noticed, I was drunk yesterday."

"Oh, I saw," he told her. "I knew there needed to be something because you'd not give me the time of day in London."

She started laughing in an infectious way that soon had Luke laughing with her.

"I'm sorry. I've been told I can be a bit snobbish and standoffish sometimes. It's just, I don't like small talk. I'm an introvert and it drains me to talk about insubstantial stuff with strangers."

He wondered how often she was so candid with someone she'd just met.

"I don't like small talk either," said Luke. When Sol looked at him with incredulous eyes, he felt obligated to elaborate. "I feel a bit out of place at Josie's. Everyone is so accomplished in their Pilates proficiency."

"The regulars take it very seriously."

"Are you one of the regulars?" he asked.

"I'm in my forties, which means I have to take all aspects of my health seriously. Josie helps me stay in good physical shape, so I treat my time there with respect," said Sol. She was a bit disarming in her security and commitment to fitness.

"I doubted joining Josie's place actually," said Luke. In a way, he felt that line of conversation wasn't a good idea, but he couldn't avoid going there. He was supposed to go there. "I read about The Privateers creator whose script was stolen there?—"

"The one that leaked online, you mean?" said Sol. "Did you read the Voyeur article about the script being stolen at the studio? Everyone is pestering me about it. Even my friends yesterday wanted to know about my Pilates studio being the center of a Hollywood theft!"

"And what did you tell them?"

"That it's ridiculous. I'm sure it's just one of those rumors and Voyeur never bothered to confirm anything before publishing it. I don't think Sara or any of us could get robbed there. Plus, we all use lockers."

Luke had wanted to see Sol's reaction when he mentioned the theft. His inner lie detector believed her when she said the theft could not have happened at Josie's. Under normal circumstances, that would have been enough to convince him that she wasn't involved. But was he being his usual objective analyst with her?

"Sara?" asked Luke tentatively.

"Sara Daniels, one of the creators of The Privateers . She is a regular at Josie's. Haven't seen her since the script leaked."

"Do you know her?" He knew he could ask only so many questions without raising suspicion.

"I've seen her at the studio taking classes and I've bumped into her after class a couple of times. I already knew who she was before. I recognized her at the studio. I had interviewed her and her sister, Bryana, a couple of years ago when they were first promoting the show," she explained.

"So you're a journalist?" he asked, hoping it didn't show how much he already knew about Sol.

"Entertainment journalist, yes," she said, abrupt again.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to be one of those people and ask you who's the most famous person you've ever interviewed."

"Please don't," she replied, clearly relieved.

"I'm dying to know what Hollywood figure you've found most interesting in close conversation and whom you're still dying to talk to, but I'll wait until you feel like confiding that kind of information." He smiled. "In the meantime, do you have any other recommendations about your hometown you'd like to share with a very lost Londoner?"

"First time in Barcelona?" She looked like someone who wasn't in the habit of spelling anything out, not even facts about her own city.

"Afraid yes," he told her sheepishly.

"Don't tell me you went to Madrid years ago but never bothered coming here, and you like it there more than here…"

Luke had heard about the rivalry between the two cities but had never witnessed it firsthand. Judging by her tone, if he gave her a wrong answer, she'd probably let him go on the spot.

"Not that either," he said, the same abashed notes in his voice and manner.

He hadn't visited that many places and, even though he had never had a hard time admitting it, talking to a citizen of the world like Sol made his limited travel experience tougher to recognize.

"A bit of a reluctant traveler, are we?" Sol asked. He felt almost relieved because she didn't judge him and she seemed to get it.

"You could say that, I guess." He combed his wavy hair with his left hand. "It's just—I have a hard time leaving London."

"I see," she said, no sign of censure in her voice. "I guess my main advice is to walk a lot and everywhere. You'll get to know the city better that way. And look always not only in front of you but to both sides of the street."

"Are drivers so aggressive?"

"Yes, and there are also the tourists on scooters and the local bikers who don't care about traffic rules or pedestrians. But I didn't mean to be aware only when you're crossing a street. You don't know what art nouveau building or terrace in a hidden alley you may see if you pay attention to the small details. And they're often not only in front of you," she said.

"I'll keep my eyes open."

"Also, I don't care what travel guides may say, you don't walk La Rambla, and you sure don't stop there for a drink or a meal. You cross La Rambla on your way to somewhere else and, when you do, you try imagining how beautiful it was when Barcelonians could actually stroll there."

A family of five sat at the table closest to them, breaking their little bubble.

"Any chance I can impose on you a bit more and have you guide me in a walk through this neighborhood? I might get lost otherwise, and you can show me how to look properly."

"You're the worst, most tenacious flirt I've met!" Sol said. She stood and gestured for him to follow her. "But sure, I wouldn't want you to get lost."

He tried fooling himself into thinking he'd asked her for a guided tour in order to keep doing his job when in reality, not that deep down, he knew he simply wanted to continue spending time with her.