"Since you've effectively branded me for the afternoon," Borja said, gesturing to the coffee stain, "the least you can do is let me buy you a replacement. One that stays in the cup this time?"
"Right," she said, straightening up and handing him a soggy mass of napkins. "Perdona si te llamo 'Cayetano,' but I feel like you probably have a sailboat named after your grandmother and a very strong opinion on polo shirts."
Raquel looked at her watch. She was supposed to be meeting friends in Malasaña, a world away from the starched shirts and signet rings of this neighborhood. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker of humor that didn't fit the 'Cayetano' mold. Perdona Si Te Llamo Cayetano Raquel Tirado Fe...
Raquel rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the small smile tugging at her mouth. "Of course it is."
"I am so, so sorry," Raquel stammered, frantically grabbing napkins. "I was looking at my phone, and I just—" "Since you've effectively branded me for the afternoon,"
The man looked down at his ruined shoes, then up at her. He had that effortless, slightly tousled hair that looked like it cost a hundred euros to maintain and a smile that suggested he’d never had a bad day in his life. "It’s fine," he said, his voice smooth and maddeningly polite. "They were getting old anyway. All three weeks of them."
The orange glow of the Madrid sunset bounced off the glass buildings of Paseo de la Castellana, but for Raquel, the view was mostly blocked by the back of a very expensive, very well-tailored navy blazer. She was supposed to be meeting friends in
She had bumped into him—literally—outside a coffee shop in Salamanca. Her iced latte had done a graceful, tragic arc onto his suede loafers.