It’s absurd. I don’t know his name. He could be married. He could be the kind of man who flirts with women on every flight and forgets them before landing.
Beside him, I feel like a waif. Not glamorous. Not polished. Certainly not the kind of woman men like him notice.
Still, I can’t deny how turned on I am. Proof my body has already betrayed me.
Maybe Marcella was correct. I should open myself up. She took a chance and is now married to a gorgeous doctor who’s eight years younger than her. I grip the armrest, desperate to anchor myself.
Coming back to reality, who am I kidding? This guy is a stranger on a plane. I have too much responsibility. I can’t afford to make any mistakes. I’m spending my time in Spain eating and drinking. Research.
The smart move is obvious. Pull out my headphones, close the divider, throw on a movie and crash until we land.
Keep this man a beautiful question mark I never try to answer.
Except…it’s hard to ignore the buzz in my body and the ache for more than food or sleep. I’d be lying if I denied the way my heart yearns for someone beside me and how my soul whispers about a family I’ve never dared to imagine.
I shut my eyes, draw in a breath, and remind myself silence is safe.
The truth presses hard in my ribs.
I don’t want safe. I want to fall into the abyss.
The question is, am I brave enough?
Chapter two
Irecognizeherthemoment I sit down.
Not from photographs. Or puff pieces in travel magazines. We’ve never actually met, after all.
I know of Rosa Delgado because she fascinates me.
I’ve eaten at Delgado Cocina Española a few times. Never as Santiago Rivas, Master Sommelier.I dine the way some people go to church. Quiet, humbled, aching tofeelsomething.
And I do. Oh, how I do.
Word of Rosa Delgado and her family restaurant reached me fast when it first opened. A native Spaniard doesn’t ignore it when the industry whispers of a woman cooking Spanish food better than most kitchens in Madrid. In Tacoma, no less.
I couldn’t stay away.
It wasn’t long before critics were clamoring to praise her. The past couple years, the powers that be are talking James Beard, and they’re right. Her food isn’t loud. It’s exact.
The lamb with Montsant still lives on my tongue, tannins cutting through fat before yielding to smoke. Her anchovy with Albariño has a purity so sharp I quoted it to a room of young sommeliers in Lyon. They scribbled notes as if I’d given them gospel.
Of course, she never noticed me. Or knew how much I admired her.. Rosa Delgado has no idea who I am.
Now she’s beside me on the way to Barcelona. My seatmate. What amazing luck.
Before now, I’ve only seen her in a chef coat with her hair under a scarf. Tonight,she looks no older than twenty. Curled under a blanket in comfortable clothing. Freckles scattered across her cheeks. Lips plush even when pressed tight. Not glamorous by any stretch, but stunning, nonetheless.
In her kitchen she commands with steel. Here she shrinks, almost as if she’s shy.
The contradiction fascinates me.
The attendant appears. “Ms. Delgado?”
“Cod. Pavlova. Albariño.” Rosa’s voice is calm, but I notice her fingers tighten on the edge of the blanket.
“The same.” I place my menu in the side pocket of my seat.
