Page 30 of From LA to London, With Love

“Right, that’s enough wallowing for now!” I said with forced cheer. “I’m going to see if there is any champagne in the mini bar to accompany this sunset, and should we order room service for dinner?”

“Umm, yes please! All that detecting, and walking up those stairs to Laura’s apartment, has really made me build up an appetite!” Sophie said.

I realized I was starving as well, which might in part explain why I’d gotten all emotional. Low blood sugar did that to me.

After we’d ordered room service, we opened the champagne and a packet of crisps from the mini bar. I cleared my throat.

“I would like to propose a toast. To your exceptional detective work and to Laura for keeping Alfie—and herself—alive long enough for us to find him. Cheers!” With two handfuls of crisps in me, I already felt a little better.

Sophie smiled at me as we raised our glasses and clinked them together. “Cheers! It was definitely a team effort. I couldn’t have carried those parcels and Elliot up all those stairs myself!”

We watched the sunset on the balcony, sipping champagne and waiting for room service to arrive. This felt…very romantic. And Sophie was looking particularly beautiful, her face lit up by the fading pink sunset. I had to fight the urge to put my arm around her and draw her close. I inwardly groaned. Why did I keep putting myself in these romantic situations when there was no hope of any actual romance happening?

“So, is there anything you’d like to see or do while we’re here? Apart from getting tickets to La Sagrada Familia, I didn’t plan anything because I wasn’t sure how busy we’d be looking for Alfie, but thanks to you, our calendar is wide open.” I was so caught up talking to Sophie about the photos that I’d forgotten to speak in my British accent, but I remembered halfway through the sentence and abruptly made the change from Chris to arrogant duke.

Sophie snorted with laughter so forcefully she spat champagne over the balcony.

“Oh my god. I hope I didn’t spray any unsuspecting passersby. I think some champagne came out of my nose as well. You can’t do that to me when I’m eating or drinking!” She gave me a teasing shove.

I straightened my back, put on my best incredulous expression, and dialed my accent up to the highest levels of pomposity. “Are you saying that you have a problem with the duke?”

Sophie dissolved into giggles. She looked at me, still laughing, and our eyes locked. Electricity zapped through me. Oh god. I wanted to walk over to her, place her champagne glass on the table, wrap my arms around her waist, pull her to me, and kiss her so badly it hurt.

A knock on the door interrupted my fantasy.

“That must be room service,” I said with relief.

Not only had those crisps barely made a dent in my hunger, but I needed to stop thinking about Sophie in that decidedly non-platonic way.

* * *

“And anything for your son? We can do a babycino?” the waiter asked me in English after taking our food order.

I looked at Sophie and winked. “Would our son like a babycino?”

“That sounds great, thank you.” Sophie smiled, her eyes crinkling.

We were sitting at a cafe in a square full of tall palms which surrounded a decorative bronze fountain. We’d discovered this cafe, a short walk from the hotel, on our first morning here and had returned for our last lunch in Spain. Alfie stretched out at my feet in a warm patch of sun. It was probably the tenth time since we’d arrived in Spain that someone had assumed Sophie and I were a couple and Elliot was our son. We’d initially tried correcting them but had eventually given up.

It did almost feel like we were a family unit. We’d been spending all day together sightseeing, and in the evenings after Elliot had gone to bed, we would sit on the terrace chatting, looking out over the rooftops as the sky turned pink and then darkened. After the sun set completely, we would retreat to the couch, where Alfie would snuggle against Sophie. I was more than a little jealous of him. And also slightly offended that he seemed to prefer Sophie over me.

Since we’d been reunited, Alfie had been having the time of his life in Barcelona. I hadn’t wanted him to feel abandoned again after what he’d been through, so we’d spent most of our time doing dog-friendly activities. We’d picnicked in historic Park Guell, with its striking colorful mosaics, got ice creams and walked along the beach, had coffee and pastries at dog-friendly cafes, and eaten tapas at restaurants with outdoor seating. Manuel had dog-sat Alfie while we visited La Sagrada Familia and did a private cooking class with a top Spanish chef, which I’d arranged as a surprise for Sophie. We’d had a great time at the class. Well, at least Sophie and I had. Elliot hadn’t been impressed initially but lightened up once we gave him a spatula to suck on and bash things with.

As our drinks arrived, a smiling woman in ripped jeans and an ironic band T-shirt approached our table. I braced, thinking she’d recognized me. Damn it.

But instead of making excited eye contact with me, she looked at my feet.

“He’s so cute. Can I pat him?” She smiled at Alfie, and I breathed out.

To her, I was clearly just the owner of a very cute puppy.

Alfie looked thrilled at the prospect of more pats, and I relaxed. On this trip, Alfie and Elliot had been getting a lot more attention than me, and I wasn’t complaining. At all. This wasn’t the first time I’d thought someone was going to ask for a selfie, only for them to either pat Alfie or tell us that “our son” was very cute. I’d found people were less likely to recognize me outside of LA and New York, where they were primed to be on the lookout for celebrities, and Barcelona was no exception.

Another person, a man, slowed down and looked at us. Again, I tensed, and again, I quickly realized he wasn’t looking at me at all. This time, he was focused on Sophie. The hairs pricked up on the back of my neck. I didn’t like the way he stared at her. At all. Lascivious? Lecherous? Whatever it was, it was not okay.

He said something loudly in Spanish to Sophie and kept walking. Sophie glared at him. While I didn’t understand Spanish, it was clear he’d said something insulting.

“What did he say?” I asked, a heavy feeling in my stomach.