“Look,” Fred says, pointing out his window. There, high on top of a hill in the middle of literally nowhere, are the ruins of a storybook castle, complete with crumbling turrets and a high, circular tower. Its single window—more like an arrow slit—stares back at us as we pass. “How cool is that?”
“Amazing.” I shake my head. “Not to like, hate on America. But you never see stuff like that in Dallas. Where I live, everything—everyone—it’s all so…polished, I guess. Perfect. Too perfect.”
He looks at me from the corner of his eye. “Have you been homesick much?”
“Honestly? No. Sure, I have my moments when I get frustrated with my Spanish, or I’m craving my dad’s fried chicken. But other than that, I’m enjoying being away from all the bullshit.”
“Bullshit?”
I shrug. “Where I come from—it’s an interesting place. I love my parents, don’t get me wrong. But the people they hang out with can be really superficial. You know, really into their money, and their fancy careers, and the fancy boarding schools they send their kids to. I never felt like I fit in, I guess, because I wasn’t into those things.”
“No,” Fred says, grinning. “You’re into college football and patellar dislocations instead.”
“Exactly,” I say. I grin, too, hoping it will keep the sudden swell of feeling inside my chest from showing up on my face. I don’t want him to know how he’s affecting me right now. I mean, I met Fred less than a week ago.
Why is he paying such attention to what I like—what I’m like—when he told me, point blank, he wants to keep me at arm’s length?
“I can relate,” he says. “I feel like I don’t fit in either, especially since I came to Madrid. The lads, they’re nice enough. But they’re into watches. Models. Parties on yachts, that sort of thing.”
“But you’re into Harry Potter,” I say.
“I am,” he says. “And I make no apologies.”
I look at him, the morning sun catching on the slightly irregular slope of his nose, the fullness of his lips. A deep, almost painful pulse of longing moves through me. If I weren’t leaving Spain in a month, right about now I’d be thinking how Fred could potentially be the guy.
The guy who cracks my world open. I’ve met a lot of guys, and dated a few of them. But none of them have piqued my interest the way Fred has. None of them gave me this gut feeling that something big is happening between us.
He turns his head and looks at me looking at him. His grin fades as his eyes meet mine. For half a heartbeat, I think he gets it—I think he’s thinking it, too, that I could be the girl.
His eyes flick to my mouth. They darken as a flare of heat passes across them.
After half a heartbeat, he looks away.
A muscle along his clean-shaven jaw tics.
I clear my throat. “What about you? Do you miss Germany?”
“I do.” He nods. “I’ve got a big family back home. I miss being around all the commotion—every meal was like this giant party, always heaps and heaps of food around, always extra friends and relatives squeezing in at the table. It’s a lot of fun.”
“Sounds like it, having so much family around,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I’m an only child, and I always wished I had a big family. I begged my parents for siblings, but they were always busy working, so. Yeah. It’s just me.”
“What do they do?”
“They’re both doctors,” I say.
“Wow. That’s quite impressive.”
I grin, a rueful thing. “My mom would never let you forget just how impressive it is.”
The drive goes by quickly—too quickly—the two of us talking and taking in the scenery. Then we clear a hill and Salamanca appears, the rounded gothic spires of its old city reflected in the still water of the nearby Tormes River.
“Christ, it’s lovely here,” Fred says, ducking to get a better look at the old Roman bridge as we cross the river into the city.
Watching Fred take it all in, my pulse hiccups. He’s into it. Like. Really into it. As into it as I am.
I smile. This is my semester of living in the moment. Of losing myself in travel and experience and fun.
Losing myself alongside someone who’s also lost in the beauty of the moment—it’s indescribably sweet.
“What?” he says, smiling back.
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I’m just excited about our day in Salamanca. There’s so much I want to show you.”
By some miracle, he finds a parking spot in a narrow side street. Grabbing a black baseball hat out of the back seat—I recognize the “TR” logo that belongs to the Spanish tennis superstar Tomás Rincón—Fred climbs out of the car and scurries to my door, ducking into the hat just before he holds the door open for me.
“So you’re a gentleman and a tennis fan,” I say, stepping onto the sidewalk. “I like it.”
I point in the direction I want to head, and I shove my hands inside my pockets as we begin to walk. The sidewalk is narrow and uneven, forcing us to move more closely than is polite. I move away, putting some decidedly friendly distance between us. I don’t trust myself when I’m so close to him.
“Thought you might like the hat,” he says.
“I do,” I say.
I actually love the hat. I dig it when guys wear baseball hats. They’re like my kryptonite.
Fred catches my admiring gaze with his. His eyes, sea green in the shade put off by the bill of his hat, sharpen, like he knows just how much I’m enjoying the view. He looks away, one side of his mouth quirking upward.
I curl my hands into fists inside my coat pockets. It’s not even noon, and already my will is fraying. God help me.
I clear my throat. “I love Rincón. Such a classy guy. Although Gutierrez is probably my favorite Spanish player—she’s wicked on the court. Her backhand has to be the best in tennis right now.”
“I love watching her,” he says. I love the way his face lights up when we talk sports together. “The drama is insane, isn’t it, when she’s playing? I actually got to see her at Wimbledon last year.”
“How cool!” I say.
“It was. One of my favorite sporting events I’ve ever been to.”
“Although it was not Gutierrez’s best showing. She had, like, a total a meltdown during the second set, remember? It was tough to watch. But I’m jealous you got to Wimbledon. It’s at the top of my bucket list. I’d love to make it to all the grand slams before I die.”
“Of course I remember. She threw her racquet and hit the ball boy in the bollocks. Poor kid.” Fred shakes his head. He turns his head to look at me from underneath the brim of his hat. “You really are crazy about sports. I’ve got a feeling sports medicine is going to be a good fit for you.”
“We’ll see,” I say, trying to rein in the rush of pleasure that his words have caused to bloom inside my chest. “So how about we hit up the cathedral first? Then maybe walk around a bit, grab some tapas or something for lunch—sound good?”
“Sounds perfect,” he says, flashing me a smile so big and so bright it makes all the soft parts in my chest contract.
You’re perfect, I want to say.
I don’t, though.
I can’t.
Chapter 5
Fred
Two hours into Rachel’s tour, and I already adore Salamanca. Granted, she could give me a tour of my dentist’s office and I’d think it was the greatest thing ever, but still—there’s something magical about this city.
Could have something to do with my ridiculously gorgeous tour guide. Rachel is killing me with her patience and her passion and that red fucking lipstick. She has an answer for every question I ask, and fills me in on Salamanca’s incredible, and often violent, history (home to the Moors, the oldest university in Spain, and the headquarters of fascist dictator Francisco Franco during the Spanish Civil War). I’ve discovered I’m a history buff, if only because Rachel’s genuine interest in the subject is so damn infectious.
I feel comfortable with her. At home. More at home than I’ve felt with anyone else I’ve met in Spain, that’s for certain. I get excited when I think about telling Sophie how brilliantly Rachel and I get on.
But then I remember we’re just friends, me and Rachel, and that no matter how much fun we have together, or how well our interests line up, Rachel is bloody leaving. Why get Sophie’s hopes up for a girl who can’t stick around?
I won’t be talking about Rachel with Sophie. That’d just be cruel for all parties involved. But I’m determined to enjoy the time I’ve got with her anyway. Already there doesn’t seem to be enough of it, even though we’ve got the whole afternoon ahead of us.
It doesn’t hurt that we picked the perfect day. It’s just warm enough to enjoy walking around outside, especially in the sun; it did get a bit chilly when we passed into the enormous shadow put off by the cathedral, but I think Rachel was too busy telling me about is history to really notice.
As luck would have it, we walked in on a Mass being held in what Rachel called the “old” cathedral, meaning the part that was built close to a thousand (!) years ago. We craned our necks to stare at the soaring arches of the nave as the voices of the choir rose and fell around us. The sun slanted through enormous panes of stained glass, painting the pews cobalt and bright red and green. We even managed to grab a selfie in a particularly pretty puddle of purple—the congregation’s opinion of us be damned!—but one of the stewards caught us and promptly kicked our stupid tourist asses out of the cathedral.
Rachel burst out laughing when we were back outside. The honest, gut-busting sound of her laugh—bloody hell, it filled me up to the point I could hardly breathe.
“What are you laughing about?” I teased, discreetly resting a hand against a flying buttress in the hopes it’d help with the woozy feeling inside my chest. “We’re going to burn in hell for that, you know.”
“I’ll save you a seat. But look! Damning our eternal souls was totally worth it—check out the picture.” She held up her phone to show me a blurry screen, nothing more than blobs of tan where our faces should have been.
I took the phone from her to get a better look. I laughed. “I’ve always been rubbish at selfies.”
“Me too,” she said. “Let’s take more of them. I love how terrible ours are.”
I loved how she could give less of a shit about how she looks in pictures. The girls the lads bring about are always so careful about posing for photos at parties. They’re always so serious about how their duck lips look in a close-up.
But Rachel—Rachel just wants to have fun and enjoy the moment. I fucking love enjoying it with her. It’s just so easy.
It’s too easy. I can’t resist resist.
So we walked around and took more terrible selfies, the sights of Salamanca in the background as we made faces, or laughed so hard we couldn’t hold the phone still, making the pictures progressively blurrier. We had someone take a picture of us jumping in the air, pretending to fly our Nimbus 2001s (well, Nimbus 2000 for me) in front of a section of the cathedral that just barely resembled the inner courtyard of Hogwarts. It was bloody ridiculous, and so much fun.
Luckily, I was only spotted twice, both times by fans of the squad. I signed the backs of their shirts while Rachel bonded with them over their shared belief that Ignacio Cruz (the guy who tried to relieve me of a finger last night) is a closet cannibal.
Hearing her laugh with my fans—seeing the respect she’s got for my game—it had me feeling short of breath again. For a moment, I worried I might be suffering a bout of cardiac arrest. But then a beat, small at first, unsteady, came alive in the center of my chest.
I want.
I want this girl.
I’ve known her all of a week, but I already want her more badly than I’ve wanted something in a long time.
I want.
But I can’t have her.
Rachel caught me looking at her then. I couldn’t read the expression in her eyes. They were wet. Vulnerable, almost.
They looked as vulnerable as I felt in that moment.
“See?” she said, trying on a shaky smile. “I knew Cruz liked to eat other people. Those guys just confirmed it.”
I couldn’t think of a witty response to that, other than I want to eat you. Bloody hell. I was worried my voice might betray my lust, though I suspected Rachel knew exactly what was going on inside my head—my chest and my pants, too—right then.
So I nodded at an important looking building ahead and started walking, head down, hands shoved in the pockets of my jacket. My heartbeat throbbed.
I want.
We make our way to a cobblestone lane beside the river, eavesdropping on the Spanish couple in front of us, when I hear Rachel’s stomach grumble.
“Sounds serious,” I say. My voice is gruff. Rachel’s shoulders stiffen. “How about some lunch?”
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m always hungry.”
“Fred! Why didn’t you say something?” She looks at me. Just when I’m starting to get my shit together, the warmth in her eyes makes me feel unsettled all over again. It makes me feel welcome. Invited. But I can’t go there. I can’t go in.
I shrug. I should look away, but I don’t.
“I didn’t want to interrupt the tour,” I say. “I’m very much enjoying it.”
“Thank you.” She grins, squinting against the sun. Selfishly, I’m glad she forgot her sunglasses. I love being able to see her eyes. “So, for lunch, I know just the place. Only I don’t exactly know how to get there from here, so bear with me.”
After a few wrong turns and a detour through a lovely little park, we pass under a colonnaded gallery and end up in a giant open square surrounded on all sides by imposing stone buildings. In the warm afternoon sun, they look like they’re coated in honey. Plane tracks crisscross the blue square of sky above us, scratches on an otherwise pristine canvas.
“This is Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor,” Rachel explains as we head toward a small scattering of tables across the square. “Reminds you of Madrid’s main square, right?”
“Very similar. I think I like Salamanca’s more, though.”
She grins at me. “Oh? And why is that?”
Because I get to see it with you. “Because I have a feeling we’ll take our worst selfie yet in this square.”
“Let’s do it,” Rachel says. “But first, lunch?”
“Of course.” I hold out my arm. “After you.”
We grab a table outside in the sun, its vinyl checkered tablecloth fluttering in a soft breeze. A waiter emerges from the nearby restaurant a moment later. His gaze stays on me a beat too long—I think he recognizes me—but just when I think he’s about to ask me for a photo, or maybe an autograph, he asks for our drink order instead.
Rachel looks at me. “Beer? I’m thirsty.”
I drop my menu. Of course she’s thirsty for a beer.
Jesus Christ.
“Hey…hey, are you okay?” she asks. She looks concerned. A little unsure.
I manage a tight grin. “Never been better.”
She grins. “Great. How do some tapas sound? The shrimp is really good here, and the charred peppers are ridiculous.”
We order our drinks in Spanish—Rachel’s is much better than mine—and then she orders half a dozen tapas, or the small plates of food that Spaniards love to snack on, with breezy confidence.
She crosses her arms on the table and leans into them, her dark eyes latched playfully onto mine.
She leans towards me. I smell her perfume.
I fight the impulse to reach across the table and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
She’s so bloody beautiful.
I’m struggling to get past how beautiful this girl is.
I’m struggling against the very real feeling that I’m in over my head here. I can’t get a grip on this beat inside my chest—the one that wants her. Likes her.
I’m trying, but I can’t.
At this point, I don’t even know if I want to get a grip anymore. I’m forgetting why I can’t touch her. I’m forgetting the promise I made myself. I’m having too much fun, laughing too damn hard, to think about those things.
“The fact that day drinking is socially acceptable is one of my favorite things about Spain,” she says.
“I do love the concept of a post-day drink siesta.” I lean back to let the waiter set our glasses and bottles of beer on the table. Rachel waves him off when he tries to open the bottles.
That’s okay, she says in Spanish, nodding at me. He’s got it.
I scoff, hanging my head. I grin. “The opener on my key ring. You remembered.”
“Hell yeah, I remembered,” she says. “It’s not every day I meet a guy who can open a bottle of beer anywhere, anytime. So c’mon. Show me what you got.”
My eyes never leaving hers, I dig my keys out of my pocket and pop the caps off the beers, one at a time. Rachel catches a cap as it rolls toward her, slapping it flat on the table before she reaches for her bag.
I cock a brow. “Did you remember the koozies?”
Rachel holds them up in reply. “And look! We actually need them—the beers are cold.”
I let her put the koozies on the beers. Then we sit back and drink. Spanish beer doesn’t compare to the good German stuff, but—
“It’s decent,” Rachel says after she takes a long pull, finishing the thought for me. I mean, seriously? “Not nearly as delicious as your Bavarian beer, though.”
Not nearly delicious as you, I want to say.
Fucking hell, since when have I become such a cheeseball?
“Nothing quite is,” I say instead.
She settles into her chair. “Tell me, Fred—how did a stud footballer become such a Harry Potter nerd? It doesn’t quite add up.”
I take a deep breath. I’m dying here, but I don’t want her to know that.
“I was always a nerd,” I say. “Growing up, I had it all—braces, pimples, an ant farm. I was chubby, too. Those were not my best years.”
“An ant farm? Amazing.” Rachel laughs. “And how did this chubby little nerd become a world-class athlete?”
Lessons In Losing It (Study Abroad Book 4) Page 6
