“And?” I ask.
She nods, still looking dazed. “Yeah. Everything. Even my—” She pulls out her phone and lets out a shaky laugh. “Even my phone. Which is a miracle, because I amso badat keeping trackof things.” She glances at her watch, and her eyes widen slightly. “Oh. I should probably—I mean, I have some time, but”—she looks up at me—“can I at least buy you a coffee? You literally saved my vacation. That has to be worth at least a cortado.”
I find myself smiling. “Aren’t you going to be late?”
“Late for—” She checks her watch again, and her face goes pale. “Oh.Oh.Yes. Very late. Extremely late. My sister’s going to kill me.” She groans. “I got so distracted I completely lost track of?—”
“Where are you headed?”
“Port Vell. The cruise ship. It’s leaving at six, and I have no idea where I am right now.”
I glance at my own watch. It’s just past five. “I know a shortcut,” I hear myself say. Followed by a very bad idea…“I can walk you.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“It’s fine. I’m heading that direction anyway.” (I’m not. Not even remotely close. But I tell myself it’s just a small detour. And then back to help Dad.)
Her face lights up. “Are you for real right now? Because you’d be literally saving my life. Again. That has to be some kind of record.”
“Glad to help.”
“I’m Chloe,” she says, sticking out her hand. “Chloe Dawson. And you are officially my hero.”
“No hero, just Brody,” I say, taking her hand, her soft fingertips brushing my callused palm.
“Brody,” she says like she’s testing it out. “That’s a good name. Fits the whole vigilante-in-a-baseball-cap vibe you’ve got going.”
I laugh despite myself. First genuine laugh I’ve had in weeks.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get you to that ship.”
We start walking, and she falls into step beside me. The crowds thin slightly as we move away from the densest part of La Rambla. The buildings here are older, painted in faded yellows and peaches, balconies overflowing with plants. The air smells like jasmine.
She’s babbling—something about getting lost looking for a vintage shop and wandering through the Gothic Quarter taking photos—and I’m only half listening.
Because the other half of me is noticing things. The way she talks with her hands. The freckles on her shoulders. The fact that she doesn’t recognize me—doesn’t know I’m Brody Kane, professional hockey player.
She’s looking at me like I’m just…Brody.
Some guy who rescued her purse.
Just Brody.
I can’t even remember the last time that happened.
My phone buzzes again. The weight of the backpack tugs against my shoulders, a reminder of where I should be, what I should be doing.
I silence it without looking.
Just ten minutes, I tell myself.
Dad’s kneecaps probably won’t get busted if he waits another ten minutes. Besides, it might be good for him. A night in the “clink,” so to speak.
Ten minutes before I go back to being the guy who fixes everything.
What’s the harm in that?
CHLOE
