This is his world and I’m just an accidental tourist in it.
So far, it has been more of an adventure than I’ve ever had in my life.
Sangria.
I’m not even twenty-one yet. Not that I’m going to tell him that. I think I remember reading somewhere that the drinking age is younger here than in the United States, so it probably doesn’t matter.
Either way, it’s certainly not going to get me to talk.
Chapter Thirteen Enrique
I’m surprised when she actually takes my hand.
I’m even more surprised by the enthusiasm with which she follows me to the same bar I met Ulrich at earlier.
Maybe it was the promise of sangria. Right about now, it does feel like it would hit the spot almost as much as una cerveza. But the former is far more potent, all the better to get this one talking.
My eyes flicker across her in nothing but my shirt—and those unfortunate shoes. I ignore the latter in favor of the former. Once again, I have a conflicting stew of sensations boiling inside of me. Her curvaceous legs are fully exposed. The way she fills out that simple dress shirt should be illegal. Her hair is still damp, cascading in an explosion of curls down her back.
Considering the circumstances, it’s no surprise my mind races to that movie I saw when I was a kid, Splash. The moment Daryl Hannah walked through the crowd completely naked, a mermaid turned woman, was one of my first introductions to puberty. Her dressed in one of Tom Hank’s dress shirts only added to the fantasy.
This she-devil of mine makes that memory seem as tame as a Disney movie. It’s no wonder sailors considered mermaids to be dangerous creatures. If they all looked like this one, I could see how many a ship might be led toward its doom just from staring at her too long.
We’re almost at the entrance of the bar when I feel her stop behind me. I turn to find her staring slightly agape at the beach.
It’s a different group of girls lying there now, but they are no less topless than the ones Ulrich was admiring before.
The look on her face is a mixture of shock, curiosity, and admiration.
“Welcome to Spain,” I lean down to whisper in her ear. “I would have thought you’d be more open-minded about that sort of thing.”
She turns to me, slightly indignant, as though her solitary nude swimming is something completely different from being topless on a public beach.
I laugh and continue leading her to the bar. I nod at the waiter and bartender, both of whom know me well by now, and continue on to a table with a perfect view of the beach. I allow her the better view, mostly so I can admire her shock and awe.
It’s strange, in some ways she seems so cunning, but in other ways, she’s as full of wonder as a child. I estimate her age to be about twenty or so, definitely an adult.
At least I hope so.
“Are you old enough to drink?” I ask, mostly to make sure.
She gives me a look as though the question is stupid, and I’m stupid for even asking.
In retrospect, I’m pretty sure the convent wouldn’t take on a nun, even a nun-in-training unless they were of legal age. If she’s old enough to at least pretend to give her life to God, I suppose she can handle a drink.
“A pitcher of the red sangria,” I say when Julio comes by to bring menus. It’s a tapas bar and, even though we’ve come just before they shut down for the siesta hours, the staff knows me well enough to accommodate a few dishes for us.
Diabla—I do love this name I’ve given her—stares at me after the request for sangria, but poses no objections.
When Julio leaves, her eyes fall to the menu. Based on the crease that forms in her brow, she’s not at all familiar with the offerings. So, probably not Spanish after all, just as I suspected.
“British?” I toss out, just to gauge her reaction.
Her eyes flash up to me, her face contorted in such a way that tells me that guess was wrong.
“American then.” This is another guess posed as a confirmation. She’s just as, if not more likely to be from one of the English-speaking islands in the Caribbean, maybe even Canadian. But I’m going by the numbers, and the fact that she seems to understand at least a bit of Spanish.
That’s when she seems to realize her mistake, her expression breaking out into a flash of panic before smoothing out into pure neutrality. She really needs to work on her poker face.
I laugh and shake my head. “American it is.”
The way her mouth tightens in self-reproach only confirms that truth.
And we haven’t even gotten started on the sangria.
She focuses on the menu, avoiding eye contact.
“I can recommend a few things if you like.”
She cautiously rolls her eyes up to me and, after a moment, shrugs and nods, setting the menu aside. Her eyes are reluctantly drawn to the girls on the beach again.
“We can go to the beach after this to join them.”
She looks at me as though I’ve just suggested she show up to mass naked.
I laugh. “Don’t get shy on me now, Diabla.”
The way her pretty mouth twists tells me she hates the nickname. All the better to pry her real name out of her.
Julio comes back with a clear pitcher of red liquid, swimming with orange slices and apple cubes. After pouring both of us a glass, I grab mine and lift it toward her.
She stares at it with wary regard before her questioning gaze slides to me.
“Salud,” I say, giving her a direct gaze. “To your health.”
She frowns and takes a sip without lifting her glass to mine.
I laugh and shrug. “Keep tempting fate, Diabla.”
She rolls her eyes and continues sipping, her gaze falling back to the beach.
I sit back and sip my sangria, considering her as I do. “So you
