She did a double take, checking if he was serious. It wasn’t that unbelievable that he would want to share a meal with her, but he was being a little too nice.
“Sure.” She dragged out the word, filling it with her skepticism.
“Come on, Grace. You might as well enjoy some good food.”
She nodded and added a glass of sangria to her order as well. She felt like she deserved it for some reason. What a toil it was to wander around Spain all day and then have dinner with a hot Andalusian man. Definitely something to be rewarded with alcohol.
Rafael was quiet for a long time, and Grace didn’t try to break the silence. Rather, she opted to fidget with her fingers in her lap before gulping her sangria so quickly that her cheeks flushed.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you,” Raf said at last.
Grace raised her gaze to him, surprised he would bring up their odd history, though she supposed they had nothing else to talk about other than their uncomfortable past. “It has,” she agreed, not sure what else to add.
“You’re different,” he said, matter-of-factly. Apparently in the brief amount of time it had taken to carry up her luggage and in the fifteen minutes since he’d forced her to join him for dinner, he’d been able to make a full assessment. It was like one of those side-by-side pictures.How are they alike? How are they different?Raf had cracked the code, solved the puzzle in record time.
“I guess so.” She raised a shoulder.
He took a long swig of his own drink. “So what brings you to Granada?”
Grace narrowed her eyes at him. Surely, Alma would have told him something about her situation. “A run of bad luck.”
Rafael waited, taking another sip.
She sighed. “I lost my job. My boyfriend broke up with me, and I had to move out of his apartment. And my grandma passed away.”
Rafael’s face softened, and he leaned forward, ever-so-slightly. “Sorry about your grandmother,” he said. “Sorry about all of it.”
Grace blinked rapidly. “She—she was sick for a long time, but she didn’t tell me. I wasn’t around enough to notice, or I would have figured it out sooner. I should have been there. When I moved in with her, I realized how frail she was, and she finally told me the truth. I guess that’s the good thing about Derek breaking up with me. I got to live with her again in those final months.”
“You’d lived with her before?” Raf’s gaze was concentrated on her face, so serious, as it usually was, but there was something else too. Something kind, maybe? Concerned?
“She raised me. My parents… Well, they had me when they were very young, and they never really got their shit together. I don’t have much of a relationship with them. Gram was my family.”
Rafael twisted his mouth like he was mulling over the words. “I’m sorry that you lost her,” he said again. “That’s terrible.”
Grace shifted uncomfortably in her chair as the waiter approached with their order. She hadn’t planned to open up to Raf like this. She hadn’t even been planning to eat in front of him, but here they were. Thepatatas bravaswere delicious. The sangria was perfect. And Rafael, it turned out, was kind of a good listener.
“Thank you for saying that.” Grace picked up on their conversation after swallowing a large bite of potato. “Alma is the reason I survived, of course. She was there for me through all of it, and even though my grandma left me the house, I just couldn’t be there alone.” Her voice broke, and she paused, regaining her composure. “I’d be lost without Alma.”
“And she’d be lost without you, I think. You two have always been there for each other.”
They were quiet again for a moment, chewing slowly. Additional tapas had appeared after Rafael spoke rapid (or possibly perfectly normal) Spanish to the waiter, and each dish was amazing, even though Grace couldn’t have named them. There was some kind of beef and what she thought was possibly octopus? It didn’t matter. She kept eating.
“So, are you not a fan of Picasso?” Rafael asked suddenly.
Grace cocked her head. “What?”
“The other day when I was talking about my project, you made a face.”
“What kind of face?”
Raf shook his head. “I don’t know what kind of face, that’s why I’m asking.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Her leg was bouncing under the table.
“I think you know exactly what I mean.”
Grace glanced away for a moment, hesitating. She’d been honest with him so far. Why stop now? “I just—” she started, then cleared her throat. “Picasso was obviously talented and prolific and hugely influential, but as a person he was…” She trailed off, unsure of how to put it.
