Page 10

SPAIN

TWO WEEKS LATER

NATALIA

Crappy non-apologies—the kind that pretend to be hat-in-hand but hide a hatpin that sinks into my knuckles when I reach to accept it—are Phaedra’s MO. And I’ve always let her get away with it, not wanting to embarrass her.

Well, this time I refuse to laugh it off and sweep it under the rug , I tell myself.

Six days after the blowup in Shanghai, I got a text:

I shouldn’t have said the things I did, but I don’t know if it’s fair of you to say I’m “judgmental” when I’m trying to be helpful. Can we hang out in Baku? Snacks and trash TV?

Not an apology.

Then, nine days later:

If I say you win, does this go away? The silent treatment is silly. I’ll do the bullshit “talking about our feelings” if it’s what you’re holding out for, Princess, haha. Call me.

This Monday morning in Barcelona, four weeks after our argument, I got the most annoying text yet from her—the maddening ??? universally understood to signify Why are you being a stubborn jerk and not replying?

How can she fail to take a clue? All I want is a non-qualified, non-backhanded “I’m sorry.” Part of me is tempted to tell her that, but it doesn’t count if I have to spell it out. Do I need to write a script?

Once again, I wonder about the unexpected sacrifices I’ve had to make for this “dream” job with ARJ .

Has proximity dealt a death blow to my friendship with Phae?

One minute I miss her horribly… but then she’ll go and send me another clueless text and I think, No, it’s not the job—it’s us.

We’re incompatible, and it’s time to accept it.

I’m ranting under my breath about her stupid passive-aggressive question marks, reassuring myself again that I’m right and she’s wrong, one finger hovering over Contacts Phaedra Edit Delete when a message comes through.

Charcoal Suit: Are you still in Barcelona?

Me: I’m here. Why?

Charcoal Suit: I’ve canceled plans for lunch on Jakob’s boat because I’d rather see you.

Charcoal Suit: I oughtn’t assume you’re available. But if you are, I have something I’d like to show you.

Me: I’m intrigued.

Charcoal Suit: Lobby, 30 minutes? Trousers, sensible shoes.

Klaus looks one part mischief, one part trepidation as I walk over from the elevators. I loop an arm through his offered elbow and follow him out the door. In the pickup area is a silver-and-black Triumph motorcycle with two helmets sitting on it.

“You should wear my jacket,” Klaus tells me, shrugging his off as we emerge. He drapes his green flight jacket over my shoulders. Since I’m not in heels, he seems even taller. The scent of his cologne sends a shiver of familiar longing through me.

“Thank you,” I manage, inserting my arms into the sleeves. “But, um…” I glance at the motorcycle.

He inspects my expression, and his inky eyes go serious. “I should have asked. Have you ever been on a motorbike? Are you nervous about it?”

“No, no. It’s not that. I’ve… been on them plenty.”

He gives my shoulders an amiable squeeze. “You’re in good hands. I used to do this professionally.”

“Oh, I know. I read about that.” I anxiously twist the zipper pull on the jacket. Memories of my dad flutter through my head like moths diving at a light source: silent and harmless, but with an erratic insistence.

Klaus touches my chin. “You’re troubled—this was a poor idea. We can certainly take a car to our destination.”

I draw a bracing breath and force a smile. “It’s fine. Let’s go for it.”

He hands me a helmet and mounts the bike, and wow …

it thrills me in some “swooning medieval maiden” way, watching the ease and command of him swinging one long leg over and settling into place, natural and confident as a knight astride a war horse.

I slide behind him, affixing my helmet and wrapping my arms around his waist.

Everything about it plunges me into a vivid, body-deep recognition—the oily motor smell, the engine’s feral growl, the vibration wicking up my backbone, the muscled wall of the human to whom I cling.

When we launch and curve out of the driveway onto the road, the wild caress of the wind as it increases brings both elation and sorrow.

Within a mile, the physicality of the ride strips everything else away. I’m nowhere else, doing nothing else. Freed from distraction in a world where usually there’s noise noise noise , inside and out. I’m just here , and it’s luscious.

Every detail looms large, alive and immediate. The contrast of cool, rushing air and the warmth of Klaus’s torso beneath my arms. The scent of trees and Mediterranean sunshine. The weaving pattern of a flock of birds dipping on the wind, rising and falling as if they’re playing with us.

After about fifteen minutes, we approach a sign: PARC DEL LABERINT D’HORTA . We park in a shady spot and I dismount, removing the helmet and shaking out my hair. Klaus watches me, a tiny smile quirking his lips.

“Your cheeks are pink and those bright blue eyes are shining.” He takes the jacket I hand to him and slings it over one broad shoulder, then scoops me under his left arm and points us toward a gravel path.

His shirt smells like crisp spring air and his own musky-yet-citrusy warmth.

I fight the urge to burrow against him shamelessly.

“This place is incredible,” I marvel, scanning around as we wander past a marble bas-relief of Ariadne and Theseus. There are stone neoclassical buildings and staircases, elegant statues, topiary arches, and a giant hedge maze straight out of a fantasy movie.

“I thought we could get a little lost with each other,” Klaus tells me.

Looking up into his beautiful eyes, I think I already am lost. For weeks now we’ve been texting and sneaking video calls into our mad schedules.

The tension between us is ramping up as we’ve gone from cautious flirting to bold declarations of interest. Multiple times, late into the night, we’ve exchanged anecdotes about our lives, often surprised by unusual “favorites” we have in common (cheese toasties eaten with pickles, the classic film The Shop Around the Corner , “weed flowers” like dandelions and buttercups, the book Lonesome Dove ).

Admittedly, we both have topics we avoid.

I haven’t revealed the truth about my parents, for one.

And anything touching on Emerald turns Klaus crisp and businesslike, with short, studied replies.

I’m doing my best to take Auntie Min’s advice and get to know him better before I’ll consent to spend time alone with him in private.

The physical chemistry is intense, and I know my limits.

This courtship has me walking on air. Klaus seems in no rush, never pressuring me to visit behind closed doors (even if our work duties weren’t too all-consuming to make that easy).

I love how he notices little details of things that please me, like how he’s remembered that the romantic in me has always wanted to explore a labyrinth, ever since seeing the movie as a young teen.

It’s gorgeous here. There are only a few other people around, couples holding hands or taking photos. Klaus and I fall into relaxed conversation as we stroll, chatting about the race weekend results, Spain, the upcoming Monaco Grand Prix.

After a minute’s easy silence, he asks, “What you mentioned earlier, about the motorbike. Did you date someone who rode one?”

I shake my head. “My dad had an old Honda Gold Wing. I probably shouldn’t have been riding around on the back when I was little, but… I loved it.” Daring to offer a more personal detail of my history, I add, “I only, uh… have a few clear memories of him, but that’s one of the best.”

A look of concern darkens Klaus’s face.

I rush on. “No, no, he didn’t die or anything tragic. He and my mom skipped town and gave me to my great-aunt to raise when I was seven. I haven’t seen them since.”

He seems to weigh his reply carefully. “One might argue that is a tragedy. Perhaps more so than a death.”

“Maybe. But they had me too young, and my aunt was awesome. No big deal.”

Maybe the most haunting big deal of my life, but who’s counting?

Anxious about having said too much, I point left at a fork in the path to change the subject. “I have a good feeling about that way.”

“Onward, trailblazer.”

We reach the labyrinth’s center and stand before a statue of Eros.

Klaus takes my hand, fingers dovetailing firmly with mine, and the weight of the moment settles around us.

There’s a thin, far-off whine from an airplane, the reedy intermittent calls of insects and birds, laughter and chatter in Italian from a couple in the next row.

Klaus releases my hand and unslings the jacket from his shoulder, digging in an inside zipper pocket. “A small gift for you,” he says lightly, holding out a velvet box.

I suspect he’s prefaced it this way because the offering of little jewelry boxes typically has the context of a proposal, and he doesn’t want me to panic.

I’m expecting something casual… charm bracelets are having a moment right now with driver wives and girlfriends, who sport charms from each grand prix location—a dragon from China, a kangaroo from Australia, that sort of thing.

I tip open the lid and my breath catches. Nestled in the velvet is a heart-shaped emerald as big as my pinky-nail… easily two full carats or more. The simple, unadorned beauty of the massive stone, suspended on a white gold box chain, is breathtaking.

I look up, eyes wide. “Klaus, this is”—I inspect it again, stunned—“not a ‘small gift.’”

“Since you mentioned the hand-me-downs of your childhood, I’ve been wanting to give you something lovely that will forever be yours alone.”

He gently takes the box from me and removes the pendant. The chain is long enough that he slips it over my head without having to undo the clasp. He positions the stone at the center of my chest, the backs of his knuckles skimming one breast, sending electric heat down my arms and legs.

I grab the placket of his shirt and pull him toward me.

We pause a centimeter apart. A smile tilts one corner of my mouth at how earnest he looks.

The unexpected power is heady, knowing this is a man who sails effortlessly through a world of prestige, speed, high-stakes business, and iron control…

yet his dark eyes search mine with the trepidation of someone who’s walked to the open door of a skydiving plane and isn’t sure he can jump.

“And for months, I’ve been wanting to give you this ,” I whisper, rising on my toes to brush my lips against his.

We tease and slide, our mouths connecting in heartbeat-quick touches. One of his hands delves into the front of my blazer and spreads at the juncture of my shoulder and neck, and I can’t suppress a breathy moan.

“Talia,” he murmurs as we come together again and again. “Lioness… witch… conqueror .”

It’s a good thing we’re in public, or I’d knock him to the ground and jump on him with the same confidence he showed getting on that motorcycle.

Gravity pulls at the core of me—my heart, my spine, and everything below that, aching for his touch.

I fall into this man with an inevitability, like displaced water flooding an empty vessel tugged beneath the surface in a cascading surrender to physics.

He pulls back first, cradling my face and combing my bangs aside to kiss my forehead. An airy whimper of disappointment escapes me, and he laughs, encircling me with one arm and pocketing the empty velvet box.

“Hot-blooded woman,” he teases, setting us in motion down another gravel path. “You’ll get us in trouble.”

I snake an arm around his waist. Looking up at the cartoonishly perfect mounds of white cloud against the cerulean sky, I rest a hand over the pendant, wondering if I’m imagining that it’s unusually warm from having been trapped between us as we kissed.

“Thank you for this incredible necklace,” I tell him. “I don’t even want to imagine what it must have cost you.” It’s easily a five-figure stone. I know he can afford it, but the extravagance still shocks me, having been raised so frugally.

“Compared to the value of your friendship, it’s a trinket.”

We amble along leisurely on the gravel. A prickle of worry intrudes as something occurs to me: I’ve accepted a gift that probably cost what most people would spend on a car, so… has my journalistic loyalty been bought and insured?

And worse yet, is that exactly why he’s given it to me?