Okay, so here’s the thing about being rescued by a ridiculously attractive stranger in Barcelona: It doesnothappen to people like me.
People like me—Chloe Dawson, chronic overplanner, professional people pleaser, girl who once got left behind at a rest stop on a family road trip fortwo hoursbefore anyone noticed—do not get swept off their feet by handsome heroes who chase down thieves to help them.
And yet.
Here I am, walking down a cobblestone street in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, next to a guy who’s giving off major Captain America-in-hiding vibes with that baseball cap pulled low over his brow. And sure, he’s handsome, all tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair, a little stubble around the edges. But it’s his eyes that keep catching me off guard. Gray-blue, like storm clouds over the ocean, with this intensity that makes me feel like when he’s looking at me, he’s actuallyseeingme. Not looking through me or past me, butatme.
Which is…new.
And slightly terrifying.
Or maybe it’s just the adrenaline working its way out of my system. That would explain why my heart is still doing that weird fluttery thing and I got all weak in the knees at the way his voice softened when he asked if I was okay.
Yeah. Definitely the adrenaline.
The street we’re on now is quieter than La Rambla, the buildings pressing close on either side, painted in faded peaches and buttery yellows. Wrought-iron balconies spill over with geraniums and trailing ivy, and someone’s laundry hangs froma line overhead, white sheets fluttering in the breeze. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, willing it to stay put for once.
Come on, hair. Hot guy here, work with me.
“So you planned this whole trip?” he asks, breaking into my self-deprecating dialogue, and I startle.
“Oh—yeah. I mean, I’m an event planner,” I say, waving a hand. I can’t help the way I gesture when I speak, no matter how much I try. I stopped fighting it a long time ago. “Well,tryingto be an event planner. I just started my own company a couple months ago, Ever After Events—super cheesy name, I know—and my sister’s wedding is kind of my big debut.” I shrug. “This whole bridesmaids’ cruise thing was my idea. A Pinterest-worthy “bridal-cation,” if you will. Barcelona to Mallorca, with every gorgeous stop in between.” A quiet laugh escapes me and I add, “I think I might be better atplanningother people’s experiences than actuallyparticipatingin them.”
I’m rambling. I know I’m rambling. It’s what I do when I’m nervous. Or excited. Or existing.
Brody’s mouth quirks up at the corner. Not quite a smile, but close. “Sounds like a good idea.”
“Tell that to my sister when I show up late.” I adjust the strap of my purse—my miraculously recovered purse—and feel my face heat up. “I got a little sidetracked at the Mercat de la Boqueria…”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
“It does if I miss the cruise ship departure.”
He glances at me, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “How late are you?”
I check my watch, and my stomach does a little flip. “Um. Pretty late. But the ship leaves at six, and it’s only five thirty. So…I’ve got time. Probably. Maybe. Thanks to my superhero tour guide.” I glance at him, my face burning. I cannot believe I said that. But he’s still smiling, shaking his head with a chuckle ina way that gives me an ounce of reassurance that maybe, just maybe, he sees me as charming—not chaotic.
We turn onto a wider street, and the sun pours over the old cobblestone, sifting through the trees that line the buildings. The shadows almost look like works of art themselves, blending with the art of the ancient city. It’s enough to steal my breath away.
“Your sister must be excited,” Brody says. “About the wedding.”
“Oh, she’sThrilled. Capital T. She’s marrying this hockey player—Derek something, I can never remember his last name—and apparently, he’s a big deal in the sports world, which means the wedding has to be ‘perfect.’” I make air quotes with my fingers, nearly smacking a passing tourist in the process. “Sorry! Perdón!”
The tourist—an older woman with a sun hat the size of a small planet—glares at me. Fair.
“Anyway,” I continue, words pouring out of me. And I know, I know, I’m oversharing. But this guy—nope, the adrenaline, remember?—makes my heart race, and I just can’t seem to stop. “My sister has very high expectations. For the wedding, for this trip, for…everything, really. That’s her fun thing. You know, that thing everyone’s got going for them. Oh, not the high-expectations part. The living-up-to-them part. She’s smart and successful, and she’s got her life together. And I’m the one who—” I stop myself before I say something pathetic about being overlooked. “Anyway, she’s just…she’s great.”
“You sound like a good sister.”
The comment catches me off guard. I glance at him, and he’s looking straight ahead, but there’s something genuine in his voice that makes my chest feel tight.
“And you?” he asks.
“Hmm?”
He glances at me, turning my little heart into a pathetic glob in my chest. “What’s your fun thing?”
“Oh…um…I’m”—a chronic people pleaser? An absolute disaster?—“greatat impressions.”
