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Just a little way from the Parque del Retiro, down a small side street with brightly coloured buildings on either side, lined with large trees and small colourful shrubs, was a restaurant so exclusive there was no visible name. Just a black door—easily missed unless you knew where you were going—showed the entrance.
Antonio pressed a hand in the small of Amelia’s back, the touch purely civil—it was a gesture that wouldn’t have been out of place between colleagues, yet it was like a match being sparked low in her abdomen, and tiny flames burned in every single nerve ending. He pressed a button and a minute later a waiter appeared, wearing jeans and a white shirt, with a butcher’s apron tied around his waist. He addressed them in rapid-fire Spanish, so Antonio responded in English.
‘For two, on the terrace.’
‘Immediately,’ the waiter said, switching effortlessly to Amelia’s native language.
The small door opened into a huge room, so light and airy it was like being in the countryside. Windows that should have looked out onto the street had been screened with green, creating the illusion of being in a garden paradise, and the ceilings were at least three storeys high.
There was a lift at the back and the waiter pressed a button, waiting beside them for it to arrive. Once the doors had opened, he held the doors then reached inside to press a button, before nodding and spinning on his heel.
The lift ascended swiftly—it took only seconds—and then they were on a terrace that exceeded all of Amelia’s expectations. It overlooked the park, showing verdant rolling hills in one direction, and large trees grew in huge pots, jasmine scrambled over a pergola and the tables were placed haphazardly—scattered at random, so that no one table was near another.
It was perfect—private, intimate and clearly exclusive without being off-putting.
‘Ah, Mr Herrera.’ Another waiter appeared, this one a little older, with his dark hair thinning at the temples, his eyes holding Antonio’s before transferring to Amelia. ‘Lovely of you to join us again.’
Amelia ignored the instant surge of jealousy at that—because of course Antonio had frequented this restaurant before, and presumably not alone. It was the perfect place to bring a date—hadn’t she just been thinking so? She straightened her spine, telling herself she didn’t—couldn’t, shouldn’t—care.
‘This way, please.’ The waiter smiled at Amelia and then guided them to a table right at the edge of the terrace. Here, the fragrance of jasmine was exquisite and a nearby citrus tree in a pot was in blossom, so there was a faint humming of feeding bees, their pollen collectors glistening yellow in the afternoon light. The sun was high in the sky yet it wasn’t unbearably warm. Amelia took the seat Antonio had held out for her, letting her gaze chase the details of the view.
For the first time, she felt a kernel of excitement for this—her new city. There was so much to explore, so much to learn!
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said after a moment, her breath fast.
He looked towards the park, and pushed his sunglasses up onto his head. She transferred her attention from the park to Antonio, marvelling at how easy it was to forget just how intensely attractive he was.
‘Yes.’ He ran a hand over his stubbled chin. ‘When I was a boy,’ he said, turning to look at her and smiling an easy, companionable smile, ‘my father used to take me there, almost every weekend.’
‘Really? What for?’
‘Football,’ he said with a shrug so his shirt drew across his shoulders and she bit down on her lip to remind herself not to stare. ‘And puppets.’
‘Puppets?’
A waiter appeared with some sparkling water, placing it on the table before them.
‘Puppets,’ Antonio agreed, once they were alone again. ‘There are puppet shows on, all the time, and I used to love them.’
Her heart turned over in her chest at this unexpected detail from his childhood—so mundane, so regular, and completely perfect.
‘You’re surprised?’ he prompted, despite the fact she’d said nothing—and she knew it was because he could read her more easily with each day that passed.
‘I’m...yes,’ she said on a curt nod. ‘I am.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you don’t strike me as a man who was ever really a boy,’ she said, and then wrinkled her nose on a small laugh, which he echoed.
‘You think I was born like this?’
‘No.’ She rolled her eyes, her smile not fading. ‘I guess you must have physically been a boy at some point. But one that played and had fun?’
He wiggled his brows. ‘I assure you, I was both those things.’
‘You weren’t determined to take over the world, even at six?’
‘Perhaps a little,’ he said, lifting his hand, his forefinger and thumb pressed close together.
