The waiter clears our plates, asks if we want dessert. Brody looks at me, and I shake my head because I’m too full and too nervous and too aware of his hand holding mine to think about food.
“Just the check,” Brody tells him. He turns that intense gaze on me, and my pulse flutters. “We should probably head toward your hotel. Wouldn’t want to get you home too late. Where are you staying?”
I pull out my phone, swiping the screen to my hotel confirmation and the little map below with that red pushpin. Brody takes a glance and nods. “That’s not far. Come on, the night’s still young.”
And then it’s just us and the candlelight and the distant sound of guitar music drifting from the plaza.
The music gets louder—or maybe I’m just paying attention to it now—something slow and romantic, the notes floating through the warm evening air like they’re made of honey.
“Do you hear that?” I ask.
“The music?”
“Yeah.” I glance toward the archway, where I can see the edge of Plaça Reial—the twinkling lights of those gorgeous Gaudí lampposts, the fountain lit from below, people moving in the glow. And couples. Dancing couples, swaying to the music.
I watch them for a moment. An elderly couple moving in perfect synchronization, a younger couple laughing and stumbling, a middle-aged pair holding each other close. And something in my chest aches.
I want that.
I want to dance with Brody under those twinkling lights and pretend for just a little longer that this is real, that tomorrow isn’t coming, that this isn’t going to end.
But I can’t ask. That’s too much. Too forward. Too?—
“Want to dance?”
I turn back to him, startled. “What?”
“Dance.” He’s smiling, but there’s something nervous in his expression, like he’s not sure what I’ll say. “With me. Out there.”
My brain short-circuits for a second. “You want to dance? With me?”
“That’s generally how dancing works.”
“Oh…no, I’m terrible at dancing. Like, catastrophically bad. I once stepped on my prom date’s foot so hard he had to go to urgent care.”
I’m still babbling about broken toes and lifelong limps when Brody stands, pulling out his wallet to pay the check. He tosses some cash on the table and turns back to me. “I’ll risk it.”
I take his offered hand and stand, my legs slightly wobbly. The wine, probably. Or the handholding. Or the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the entire city. Brody—mysterious, guarded, ridiculously attractive Brody, with his storm-cloud eyes and the way his T-shirt stretches across his shoulders when he moves—wants to dance with me.
In Barcelona.
Under twinkling lights.
Best coma ever.
He leads me through the archway, into Plaça Reial, and my breath catches. It’s even more beautiful than it looked from the restaurant. The fountain in the center sparkles, water catching the light and sending tiny rainbows dancing across the cobblestones. And those lampposts—those gorgeous, ornate Gaudí lampposts with their twisted iron and multiple glowing lanterns—cast everything in warm, golden light that looks like captured fireflies.
A street musician is sitting near the fountain, his guitar resting on his knee, fingers moving over the strings with the ease of someone who’s played for years. He’s older, weathered, his shirt wrinkled and sleeves rolled up, and his case is open at his feet with a few coins and bills inside. He’s got his eyes closed like he’s lost in the music, and the notes he’s playing are so beautiful they make my throat tight.
There are maybe a dozen couples dancing, and Brody pulls me into the fray, wrapping an arm around my waist as he takes my other hand in his warm, steady palm. I feel completely safe.Like even though we’ve only known each other a few hours, there’s something starting here today. Like this is the first dance of many. And I want to melt into it, memorize it.
We start to move.
And for .2 seconds, I manage not to hurt anybody, and then?—
“Sorry!” I gasp.
“Oof, you weren’t kidding.”
