Royal Ruin Page 25

  I don’t know if he mentions JT on purpose, but I appreciate the common cultural reference nonetheless. It helps me get my bearings, helps me feel a little less lost.

  I bite my lip. “Justin Timberlake. Really?”

  “Really.” He meets my eyes. His spark with mischief. “Justin Timberlake. It has been confirmed by people I trust.”

  I don’t think Rafa needs much sangria at all to dance well. He’s one of those guys you can just tell knows his way around a dance floor.

  One of those guys you can just tell is good in bed. Not that I have much practice. But still. There’s something so…quietly virile, confident about him. He would know what he was doing, and he would do it well.

  “Well then.” I tip back my glass. “I definitely have some catching up to do.”

  “I have a lot of practice with sangria,” Rafa says. “I am telling you the truth. I am very confident in this—that you will be speaking perfect Spanish by the end of the semester. Not only that. I think you will dream it, too.”

  “That’s a tall order,” I say. “You have to be pretty fluent to dream in a different language.”

  He smiles. The curving lines around his mouth deepen, making him look boyish. Cute. “I think you can do it.”

  “I think your confidence is misplaced,” I say. “But I could use all the motivation I can get, so thanks.”

  “Vale,” he says, using that quintessentially Spanish word with a thousand meanings I have yet to tease out. I’ve heard it described as “okay” or “cool,” but it seems like neither of those words fully capture its nebulous spirit. “You just need a little bit of courage, and you will figure it out.”

  “Vale,” I reply. I’m teasing him now, flirting. Openly. It’s fun.

  “See?” He nods at the glass in my hand. “Already, the sangria is working.”

  “Hardly. Words are easy. But sentences?” I shake my head. “I need a lot more liquid courage for those.”

  Over the rim of my cup, I notice Al is talking to some of the other guys from Meryton, his back angled away from Rafa and I; we’re cut off, secluded in our own little corner. The sounds and smells of the alley crowd around us, but it feels like we’re alone, somehow, the space between our bodies vibrating with silent warmth.

  At least I feel it vibrating. I wonder if Rafa does, too, or if my sudden interest is unrequited. My crushes are usually—no, they’re always unrequited. No one ever looks twice at me. Ever. It’s like I’m always the bridesmaid, never the bride; I can make out with a guy, but he never seems to feel the fluttery things I do.

  “You came to Spain to learn our language,” Rafa says. “But what else will you study while you’re here?”

  I swallow my sangria. “Last semester I declared an Economics major, so I’ll be taking business classes, mostly. A literature class. And then I’d love to take some Spanish art history, but I don’t know if I’ll have room on my schedule for such a guilty pleasure. I don’t want to take too much on.”

  “Guilty pleasure?” Rafa arches a brow. “Madrid has some of the best art museums in the world. There is nothing guilty about studying it, especially while you are here.”

  “Have you?” I ask. “Studied art history, I mean.”

  “I have. Quite a lot, actually. You, too?”

  “Some classes. I love it, I do, but you can’t really do much with an art history major, so. Yeah.” I sip my sangria. “Who are your favorite painters?”

  “I like all the Spanish painters. Goya. Velázquez.” He says the names in his perfect, succulent Spanish, and never in my life have I heard anything so sexy. I make note of his pronunciation, his accent; Goy-ja, Velash-quez; I will have to practice them later. “El Greco, even though he isn’t really Spanish. We still like to take credit for his genius. But my favorite? My favorite is Sorolla.”

  I blink. Sor-roya. “Sorolla? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

  Rafa grins. “You must take art history, then, if only to learn of Sorolla. There is a whole museum here just for his work. I think it’s the best museum in all of Spain. I’ll take you there—even if you don’t take the art history class, you must see it.”

  I don’t know if it’s the sangria—it’s probably the sangria—or the way Rafa is looking at me, but the backs of my knees begin to tingle. It’s my first night in Madrid, and here I am, getting my buzz on, talking my favorite thing—art! —with an incredibly good-looking Spaniard. He’s probably only offering to take me to this museum because he’s drunk and trying to be polite, but I don’t care. However fleeting it may be, even if nothing comes of it, I am in love with this moment.

  And that’s got to count for something.

  “The Sorolla Museum,” I say. “I’ll have to remember that. Thanks for the tip.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replies. “I hope you like it here, Vivian. I know coming to a different country can be hard. The language, the food, all the little things—I remember being so homesick in New York when I first got there I called my parents ten times a day.”

  I look down at my cup—almost empty now—and slowly nod my head. “I admit I’ve cried a little bit today. And by a little bit, I mean a lot.”

  “It will get better,” he says. “You are here for, what, five months?”

  “Almost six.”

  “That probably feels like a lifetime right now, yes?”

  I scoff. “It does, actually. That’s what I was crying about.”

  When I look up, he is standing closer—there are people behind him now, pressing him toward me—and my heart skips a beat. We meet eyes. His reflect the soft glow of the lamps outside the bar; it’s getting dark, the air around us velvety. That tingle behind my knees moves to a full-on rush.

  “I’m biased,” he says, “but if you do it right, Madrid is an easy place to fall for. Mostly because I live here.”

  I smile and he smiles and the look in his eyes is so lovely it makes my stomach hurt in the best, the best way.

  “So where are you taking us tonight?” I ask. “I’ve heard pretty amazing things about the nightlife here. I mean, no pressure or anything.”

  He glances at his watch, a simple round face on a well-worn leather strap. “The bars close in a few hours. Then we will head to the discotecas—on Saturdays the best is Ático. We can start there.”

  “I hope Justin Timberlake will be making an appearance?”

  He holds up his glass, lets it tilt in his fingers. “He’d better. Otherwise I’m going to embarrass myself in front of my new friends.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, somehow I think you’re going to put us all to shame, with or without Justin’s help. I’m not proud of my white girl moves.”

  “But you’re not afraid to show them off,” he says, eyes sparking as he grins down at me.

  “Hell no,” I say. “Especially not after I’ve had a little—more than a little—sangria.”

  “Excellent.” Rafa taps his glass to mine. “Welcome to Madrid, Vivian. I’m glad you’re here.”

  What does that mean? It probably doesn’t mean anything. We’re just talking, drinking, maybe flirting, too.

  Even if Rafa did mean something by that, I came to Madrid to work my ass off, pull up my GPA, and enjoy some art. I didn’t cross an ocean to start a relationship—a hookup, a romance, whatever—that inevitably won’t last. I promised myself no more hookups, no more heartbreak.

  Still.

  I find myself grinning back up at Rafa, wondering what his wine-stained lips would taste like.

  Wondering if his kindness is a ploy to get in my pants, or if it’s genuine. It makes no sense, I know; guys this good-looking, guys that smell this wonderful, don’t need to be nice to awkward American girls like me to get some.

  But there’s something about Rafa—something about his eyes, his calm, easy demeanor, that makes me think he’s different.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

  And I mean it. I do.

  * * *


  Keep reading Vivian and Rafa’s story here!

  Acknowledgments

  This book has truly been a labor of love. It took me half a year to write it, and there were many times I wanted to give up. The support, guidance, and enthusiasm of the following people kept me going:

  My editor, Kristin Anders. You are so talented, and you really push me to be the best writer I can possibly be. THANK YOU.

  My cover artist, Noelle Pierce of Selesitele Designs. I am obsessed with this cover and the crest. I was a huge pain in the ass during the design process, but you handled it with aplomb. You rock.

  My beta readers, Christine Frieseke-Miller, Quinn Fall Bowman, and Auden Dar. You ladies took the time to provide insightful and seriously invaluable feedback on Kit and Em’s story. I can’t thank you enough for taking a chance on me. So, so appreciate the work you put into making this book shine!

  My bad ass bitches, Sophia/Wendy, Maria, Danielle, Arell, and Sonny. No joke, becoming friends with you this year has changed my life—and my career—in a big way. I hope I can one day pay you back for all the support and wisdom you’ve given me.

  My author and blogger friends, specifically Kathryn Nolan, Lucy Score, and Kimberly Anne of Wicked Hearts. Thanks for letting me pop into your reader groups to help promote this book. I promise to return the favor!

  Thanks to Whitney G. and Nicole London for putting on THE BEST INDIE WRITER’S CONFERENCE EVER this past summer! If you are an author, you should seriously consider attending the next Indie Tea Conference. It changed my life, and I have no doubt it will change yours too!

  And finally, thanks to my husband and #1 fan, Benji. I was in a really rough spot this year, and you came to my rescue, as always. My world continually cracks open the longer I’m with you. Thank you for loving me just the way I am, even when I struggle to love myself. Smooches.

  About the Author

  JESSICA PETERSON began reading romance to escape the decidedly unromantic awkwardness of her teenage years. Having found solace in the likes of Mr. Darcy, Jamie Fraser (OMG love the gingers!), and Edward Cullen, it wasn’t long before she began creating tall, dark and handsome heroes of her own. She lives in Charlotte, North Carolina with her husband, Mr. Peterson, and her smelly Goldendoodle Martha Bean. For more information, please visit her website at www.jessicapeterson.com.