As they walked toward the metro, the girl from the outskirts and the boy from the golden mile, the labels started to feel a little less permanent. Maybe he was a Cayetano, and maybe she was exactly who she thought she was, but under the Madrid sky, they were just two people walking toward a better cup of coffee.
Raquel paused her scrubbing. The accent, the Barbour jacket draped over his arm, the leather weekend bag—he was a walking stereotype.
He let out a startled, genuine laugh. "It’s Borja, actually. And the boat is named after my mother. My grandmother’s name was much too long to fit on the hull."
"Fine," she said, swinging her bag over her shoulder. "But we’re going to a place I pick. And if I see a single person wearing a sweater tied around their shoulders, I’m leaving."
Raquel rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the small smile tugging at her mouth. "Of course it is."
"I am so, so sorry," Raquel stammered, frantically grabbing napkins. "I was looking at my phone, and I just—"
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