“They’re tomatoes.”
“They’reperfecttomatoes!”
I’m smiling without meaning to.
We stop at a flower stall—massive bouquets of sunflowers and roses. Chloe reaches out to touch a sunflower, her thumb brushing over the velvety petal. The vendor catches my eye with a knowing smile, and before I can second-guess myself, I’m sliding two euros across the wooden cart. The woman plucks out the sunflower and holds it out toward Chloe.
“What’s this for?” she asks.
I lean in. “Consolation prize. For missing your cruise.”
Chloe glances at me over her shoulder with a shy smile. Her cheeks flush. “Thank you. No one’s ever bought me flowers before.”
I frown. “Really?”
“Really. My sister used to get flowers all the time. But me?” She tries to play it off with a shrug. “I guess I must give off a too-practical-for-flowers sort of vibe.”
The notion is so wrong, I almost laugh. Nothing could be further from the truth.
She tucks the sunflower carefully into her purse, and we continue on, coming to a stop at a juice stand. Chloe orders in Spanish—halting but confident—and I’m impressed.
“You speak Spanish?”
“Un poco. Enough to order food and ask where the bathroom is.” She grins. “The important stuff.”
Our drinks arrive. She takes a sip and makes this sound that does something strange inside me. She really has no idea how adorable she is.
“This is amazing. Here, try it.”
I take a sip. Sweet, tart, tropical.
“Good, right?” she says.
“Really good.”
“Better than boring orange juice,” she says, glancing pointedly at my drink.
“Hey now,” I scoff. “Orange juice is classic.”
“Classicis code for ‘boring.’”
I laugh despite myself.
The light filtering through the market’s windows is turning rose-gold with the sunset. We keep walking, and I realize I can’t remember the last time I did something this simple. Just walking through a market with someone. No agenda. Just easy.
We finish our juices and head toward a tapas bar tucked into a corner—standing room only, chalkboard menu entirely in Catalan. Chloe orders confidently.
“What did you order?” I ask.
“Patatas bravas, croquetas, and pan con tomate—bread rubbed with tomato and olive oil. And Manchego cheese if they have it.”
“You know your tapas.”
“I did my research.”
The bartender slides plates across—golden croquetas, potatoes in spicy red sauce, thick bread slices glistening with tomato pulp and olive oil. The smell alone makes my mouth water.
We eat standing up, sharing plates.
