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I miss you. My eyes took in the photo with that striking smile of his.
Would he approve of me spending alone time in Barcelona with another man? I already knew the answer to that. River was territorial, and he’d gut me alive if he ever found out. He wasn’t the kind of man who tolerated situations that were borderline cheating.
Like this … what I was doing now was prime example.
Even though I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, technically, River might see it differently. Hewouldsee it differently.
With that startling thought, I decided against texting or calling him until I landed in Stockholm tomorrow. River would be too curious, and I’d rather avoid his interrogations until I got there.
Our food arrived and dinner was surprisingly a calm affair. I had expected Juan to resume goading me. But surprise-surprise, he reverted back to his jovial demeanor, as if he just hadn’t rattled my little secured cage and threatened to break the barriers that protected me.
Maybe in his universe such notions were far and in between, but I regarded my relationship as high priority, no matter what he seemed to believe. He could provoke me all he liked, the result would remain unchanged. Not even his persistent flirtations could persuade me to walk over to the dark side.
With that belief refreshingly cemented back in my mind, I felt secure.
After dinner, when Juan offered to slip my killer heels back on my feet, I declined his generous offer. Boundaries needed to be blatantly set, loud and clear. This Spanish flirt wouldn’t dare question or impose where he stood in my life.
I went to the nearest bench that faced away from the crowd since I was wearing such a skimpy short dress. One wrong move and the onlookers would be blessed with the sight of my cute little kitty. My lacy thong wouldn’t hide much from the view coming from my behind. Strategic planning needed to be taken. It took me a little over ten minutes to accomplish it, but it was a job well done.
“Where to next?” I asked the moment the tiny shoe strap was tightly secured around my ankle.
“I’m still contemplating if we should take a cab or if I should drive.” He seemed to be weighing out his options before glancing at me expectantly. “You know how to drive, right? When I drink, I have a hard time knowing when to stop.”
Well, he’d be quite the designated driver, that was for sure.
“If you’ll be too drunk to drive, I’ll take the wheel. No biggie.”
“All right. Let’s head back to the garage and get the car.” Juan led the way back to the apartment complex’s underground garage where his red Porsche 911 glinted under the fluorescent lighting.
Maybe I was being too hasty naming the driver Lighting McQueen, because Juan made that guy’s driving capability seemgentlecompared to his devil may care expertise. He weaved his roadster like he owned the road. Bat mobile had nothing on him.
He didn’t seem too keen on differentiating between the green, yellow, and red lights. He just kept on gunning the engine, shifting gears and weaving through traffic like no one’s business.Andeven though he looked competent enough, racing and roaring through traffic on a Saturday night in Barcelona wasn’t in my bucket list. If we crashed and died tonight, I would drag him to Hell myself.
My lips pressed together, entwining my hands on my lap while I counted down the seconds, waiting for the damn siren to halt his megalomaniac-style of driving. So far, there seemed to be no authority in sight. The cops surely had been alerted. They had to be. No one got away with a stunt like this in LA, not for this long.
“Slow the hell down or we’re going to get pulled over!” I lightly slapped his shoulder when my screeching didn’t seem to get my point across. Come to think of it, my passport was back in the apartment. If they asked for identification, I had nothing to give them but cash and my top tiered Nordstrom credit card. Somehow, I doubted they’d appreciate my proof of identification as an avid shopper.
“We’re here!” Juan exclaimed as he swiftly parked on a curb before killing the engine.
Herewas somewhere dark, and the scarce street lamps didn’t give me much to go on. As for playing the great tour guide, Juan Torres was awful. Next time, if there ever was a next time, I would decline his offer.
I softly panted as I glared at him, contemplating if I wanted to wring his neck or not. “What the hell was that? Do you have a death wish I don’t know about? Because, if you do, kindly let me know so I can get a cab and not ride in this deathtrap!”
He laughed boisterously. “It wasn’t so bad. Relax a little. You might even enjoy it.”
This man didn’t take anything seriously. Everything was fun and games.
He was about to reach out and open the door when I interrupted him.
“Whereishere, precisely?” I arched a brow high, lips pursed with dissatisfaction. “Here,” he pointedly said, “is Basílica de la Sagrada Família.”
I paused, blinking at him. “The Antoni Gaudí one?” I had read about this before when my Spanish teacher had come to visit, and she had brought back all these beautiful street paintings she had purchased all over Spain. One that struck me the most was this church.
“The one and only.”
“But it’s late; how are we getting in?” Then it dawned on me. Typical Juan. “If you think I’m about to trespass, you can suck it. Not in this dress, and definitely not in these shoes!”
He frowned at me, disappointment etched on his face as he shook his head. “Are you always this …” He snapped his fingers as if to find the right word.
