Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1) Read online

  “Oh God,” I breathe into the v of Rafa’s bare chest. Relief douses my panic. “Oh, thank God.”

  He looks down at me, his blue eyes dark with concern and something else. Something that burns a shade hotter than anger.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, shouting above the music so I can hear him.

  I nod my head. “I’m fine. I’m okay. Just a little shaken up, I guess.”

  He searches my face. “They did not hurt you?”

  “No.” I nod my head at the offending creeper, still bent over. “I hurt them.”

  One side of his mouth kicks up in a grin. “Tienes cojones, mujer.”

  “What?” I shout.

  “I said you have balls, woman!”

  “Oh,” I say. “I guess so, yeah. But he doesn’t. Not anymore.”

  Rafa laughs, his lips parting to show a sliver of white, even teeth. “Your aim, it is very good.”

  “Thanks. I try.”

  “Give me one moment, Vivian,” he says. His touch feather light, he tucks me behind him, stepping forward so that he forms a wall between me and the handsy jerk offs.

  It’s a tight spot. People move behind me, elbowing me further into the enticing slopes of Rafa’s back. His muscles glide and bunch against my chest; I can smell him, the spice of his aftershave. I squirm, embarrassed, but Rafa doesn’t seem to mind; he reaches around and holds me against him, his fingers splayed on the small of back (again!!!). The ties of his bracelet tickle the inch of bare skin between my top and skirt.

  His shoulders vibrate as speaks to the guys. He’s a head taller than his captive audience, and I have no doubt he could seriously hurt any of them if it came to blows. But Rafa doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t point or gesture; he doesn’t lose his cool. He just talks, a steady stream of lethally beautiful Spanish. I can’t hear most of it; I catch snatches, a few joders, one que te folle un pez.

  I have no idea what any of it means, but even as the creepers flick their hands in front of their faces with lewd violence, they back off.

  Rafa’s hand moves from my back down the length of my arm, his fingers firm but gentle as they slide down my skin and grasp my hand. I see stars.

  He looks at me over his shoulder. Our faces are inches apart. I notice, for the first time, how full his lips are. Inviting. Mine grow warm with curiosity.

  “Ready to dance, white girl?” he asks.

  I smile. “I’m following you, JT.”

  I try not to think about my hand in his. The pleasant scratch of his calloused palm against mine, how his hand swallows my own.

  I try not to think about it, because it doesn’t mean anything.

  It doesn’t mean what I want it to.

  Rafa starts to dance as we approach the circle of my friends, moving his head in time to the beat. Al is here, dancing his adorable little Euro dance. He smiles at me; I smile back, my cheeks glowing with heat. I wonder what he knows about his cousin that I don’t. He said he’s never seen his cousin look at someone the way he looks at you.

  Katie is here, too, her eyes wide with relief when they land on me. “Where did you get lost? We went looking but we couldn’t find you!” Her gaze moves up to Rafa. “But I’m glad someone did.”

  She sees that we’re holding hands. She looks right at me, as if to say I told you so.

  I shrug, shy, suddenly.

  Our hands still clasped, Rafa brings our arms over our heads. He swivels his hips, slowly, slowly, as he spins me around to face him.

  I was spot on: holy mother this guy can dance. He moves fluidly, easily, as if he’s been dancing to Beyoncè remixes since he was in diapers. For a hot minute I’m horribly self-conscious; I wish I had guzzled a gallon of magical sangria. I can’t white girl dance, not in front of Rafa.

  I am not prepared for how overwhelmingly sexy he is when he dances.

  But he doesn’t give me a chance to second guess myself. Singing along to the song, Rafa really starts to dance, pulling me closer, closer. Closer.

  Oh, Lord.

  Rafa senses my reluctance. He smiles down at me, curling his fingers around the back of my hand as he pulls me against him, guiding my body into motion with his.

  “This okay?” he asks. “I know those putas de madre scared you.”

  Are you kidding? I want to say. Rafa’s touch, his dancing, couldn’t be more different from that puta de madre’s, whatever that means. (“Bitch of the mother,” I think?)

  In reply I start to dance, too, keeping my gaze glued to my feet. His eyes are on me, I can feel them, but it’s easier if I don’t look. It’s less overwhelming this way.

  The feeling of his body moving against mine is…everything. I’ve never felt anything like it. I’ve never had a guy this delicious all to myself. It’s glorious.

  And intimidating as hell.

  A new song comes on, and Rafa shimmies back, guiding me underneath the arch of our arms. I laugh; I’m loosening up, I can feel it, but I’m not quite there yet.

  Good thing Rafa is in no rush. He’s patient with me.

  I wonder why.

  And then I wonder why I’m wondering so much. I start to dance a little harder, biting my lip as I turn around in Rafa’s arms, swirling my back against his front. I let go of his hand to hold my arms up; he holds his hand at my waist, my skirt damp from the condensation dripping down his glass.

  The song fades into another, which just happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time—a Lil’ Jon classic that is, in my humble opinion, the bumpin’-est jam to ever come out of America.

  It’s just the push my inner dancer needs.

  I turn to face Rafa, hooking my finger in the v of his shirt. It’s as satisfying as I imagined it would be. Singing Lil’ Jon’s incredibly explicit lyrics, I pull Rafa toward me, my hips working double time. His follow suit, and when we meet it’s like a (sexy) bomb goes off.

  He smiles, a devastating flash of lips and teeth and eyes. I unravel in his arms, allowing sensation to take over. He’s smiling and I’m smiling and as we move faster and harder, it feels like we’re the only people in the room.

  We dance like this to the next song, and the next. They keep getting better. We keep getting better.

  His hand brushes my breast as he sets his drink aside.

  “Sorry!” he shouts.

  I grin. “No you’re not.”

  He gives me a wicked little smile and shrugs.

  We keep dancing. This is not the semi-gross bump ‘n’ grind I’m used to back at college. This is something much, much better. Yes, there’s a gratuitous amount of touching, of swiveling hips and shaking asses, but this feels—I don’t know, more authentic, somehow. Like we’re dancing because we love the music, we love to actually dance, not because we want to dry hump each other as a prelude to hooking up.

  Rafa’s chest and forehead are slick with sweat that glistens in the purple strobe lights; he tugs at his hair, and it stands away from his head in wet spikes. We’re both dancing like idiots. He gives me a lopsided grin, as if to apologize.

  Puh-lease, I want to say. I start doing a pantomime of my mom’s favorite move—the sprinkler. Laughing, Rafa pulls a move I can only describe as John-Travolta-meets-shopping-cart. It’s adorable.

  He spins me away from him, spins me close, spins me underneath his arm. He is singing along to the song—it’s in Spanish—a smile splitting his face, and I am laughing so hard I think I might burst. My feet hurt and I’m thirsty as hell, but I wouldn’t stop dancing if you told me I could trade places with Kate Middleton. I’m having way more fun than anyone else on the planet right now.

  Only when the music gets annoyingly techno does Rafa slow his dancing stride. He holds me against him, my front to his front, our bodies languid as we try to catch our breath. I linger in the circle of his arms, my palms resting on his damp shirt. His heart beats strongly, unevenly into my hands.

  I look up at the same moment he looks down. For a minute neither of us does anything except look. I have no i
dea where I got such cojones—usually I’d need to look away, embarrassed by his attention, by my interest—but I meet his gaze head on. His gorgeous eyes are full of laughter. Heat, too—I see heat there.

  Maybe I’m not the only one unsettled by all this touching and laughing and singing.

  Maybe Rafa is feeling what I’m feeling.

  Excited. Nervous. Awake. I don’t want this night to end.

  Rafa takes my hand in his, holding it to his chest. His cheek grazes mine as he dips his head. “Let’s maybe take a minute, yes?”

  I look at him from the corner of my eye as he pulls back. I nod.

  We look around, but our friends have disappeared. Rafa peers over my head, but no luck. We’ve lost them.

  I can’t say I’m upset. I’m glad to have Rafa to myself.

  I follow his shoulders through the crowd, unable to breathe around the enormity of want inside me. The back of his hair is a mess of wet points and licks. I want to run my fingers through them, to claim him, even for a second.

  We fall through the front doors, gasping for air as if we’ve been underwater. People mill around on the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes, chatting in small circles. You can cut the air with a knife; it’s as hot and humid as it is back home in Charlotte.

  I dig my phone out of my purse.

  “Holy shit,” I say. My voice sounds fuzzy over the ringing in my ears. “It’s four-thirty! What time did we get here?”

  Rafa scrolls through his phone. “A little before one, I think?”

  I meet his eyes. “Did we really just dance for four hours?”

  It felt like forty-five minutes. If that.

  “I know,” he says. “Doesn’t feel like it, does it?”

  “Not even close,” I say.

  I have a message from Katie; she sent it an hour ago. Tried to get ur attention but u were too busy speaking body language with Rafael. Al assured me u were ok w/ him. Took cab home with guys. Text me when u are home safe [kissyface emoji] [tongue emoji] [sexy lips emoji] [thumbs up emoji]

  I bite back a grin.

  “What?” Rafa asks, looking at my phone over my shoulder. He’s standing close enough that our bodies barely touch. The collar of his shirt brushes the nape of my neck. Despite the heat, I resist the urge to shiver.

  I press the button at the top of my phone, blanking the screen. “Nothing,” I say. “It’s Katie. She’s just teasing me.”

  “But she is okay, yes?”

  “Yes,” I say. I gather my hair in my hand and hold it off my neck. “God it’s hot.”

  “It is Madrid in August,” he says, unbuttoning the next button of his shirt. He tugs at the fabric, fanning himself. “Are you hungry?”

  I swallow, hard. His chest—tanned, taut, smattered with dark hair—peeks through his open shirt. I want to laugh it’s so ridiculous.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “My favorite churrería is very close,” he says. “Would you like to go with me?”

  I lick my lips. I remember that I really do have nothing to lose. “Only if you unbutton your shirt again. Just one more button.”

  He looks at me, his face splitting into a slow, knowing smile. He runs his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. His eyes never leaving mine, he unbuttons another button. He looks like one of those half-dressed dudes on the cover of a romance novel. Dangerous.

  Delicious.

  He pins me with an amused glare. “Are you satisfied, Vivian?”

  “I am.”

  “Good.” He tucks his hands into his pockets. “Let’s get some churros. It is the best place in Madrid, I promise you.”

  Chapter 4

  Despite the late (or early?) hour, the churrería is packed. It’s a cute, high-ceilinged spot, its walls covered in gleaming white subway tile. The scent of fried dough, cut with the sweeter smell of chocolate, envelopes us as we walk through the door. I’m suddenly ravenous.

  The line snakes around the perimeter of the room, but it moves quickly. Club-goers like ourselves lean against the counter as they wait to order. Rafa greets the guy behind the counter the same way he greeted the bouncer: handshake, bro-hug, something or another in Spanish. The guy nods at Rafa’s nearly-bare chest and laughs. Rafa introduces me as his amiga, Vee-vee-an, and I wave hello. The guy looks back at Rafa and smiles, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. Rafa shrugs, his cheeks flushing with color.

  I really, really need to work on my Spanish. I want to know what they’re saying. I want to know if they’re talking about me. I have the funniest feeling they are.

  The guy hands us wax-paper cones overflowing with churros still hot from the fryer. He gives Rafa a small Styrofoam container that I assume is the chocolate. When I try to pay, Rafa grins at me over his shoulder as he digs a hand into his pocket.

  “Maybe next time,” he says.

  “You said that about the drinks,” I reply. “Really, Rafa, I wish you’d let me pay for something.”

  “Next time. C’mon, it is too crowded in here, let’s eat outside.”

  His hands full, Rafa leans his back against the door and holds it open for me. Part of me wishes he would stop being so polite. It might keep the swell of happiness I feel at his every gesture, his every smile, in check. I’m helpless against the onslaught. It keeps coming, wave after wave after relentless wave, and I am all too content to let it pull me under.

  We walk a little ways off to the side and stop at the edge of the sidewalk. It’s quieter here; a gas lamp flickers on our side of the street, putting off shadows edged in gold.

  “Is here okay to sit?” Rafa looks down at my skirt. “I do not want people to see something they are not supposed to see.”

  “I think I’ll be okay.” I sit on the square curb, tucking my skirt between my legs, just in case.

  Rafa sits beside me. Our feet almost touch on the cobblestone street; his suede lace-up shoes dwarf my sandals.

  “Have you had churros before?” he says, setting the Styrofoam container on the sidewalk between us. He coaxes off the lid with a broad thumb. I watch him bring that thumb between his lips, licking off a small smear of chocolate.

  Oh, dear.

  I clear my throat. “Once, in high school. My Spanish teacher brought in the packaged ones – you know, the kind wrapped in plastic? They weren’t very good, to be honest.”

  Rafa makes a face. “Why anyone would eat that stuff, I do not know. Those are not real churros. But these—these are the best.”

  “So I’m supposed to dip it in the chocolate?”

  “Yes,” Rafa says, showing me how it’s done. “The chocolate—how do you say?—completes the churro. Like the icing for a cake.”

  I smile, dunking my warm churro into the thick chocolate sauce. It takes some handiwork to keep the chocolate from getting all over the place, but somehow I manage to bite off an embarrassingly huge chunk of my churro without staining my shirt.

  Rafa watches me, waiting.

  “Qué piensas?” he asks. What do you think?

  “It’s delicious,” I say around a mouthful of churro. “Like, really freaking good.”

  Rafa was right; the churro itself is yummy, kinda like an unglazed donut. But it’s the chocolate that really makes it. This is no ordinary chocolate sauce: it’s thick and gooey, just the right consistency for dipping. I’d compare it to a ganache, maybe, or especially decadent hot chocolate.

  Rafa smiles, inhaling the last bit of his second churro. “See? I told you. The best churros in all of Madrid. It is our tradition here. We dance all night, and then we get churros before we go to bed.”

  “In the States we have street meat,” I say. “Hot dogs and stuff.”

  He laughs. “Oh, yes, I’ve had your street meat. I like it.”

  “But you don’t love it.”

  “Not like I love churros,” he replies. “You have to agree, Vivian, these are much better than your hot dogs.”

  Tucking into my second—or maybe it’s my third—churro, I nod. “Way better.”

/>   Rafa looks at me, his grin deepening. “You have chocolate on your face. Here.” He points to his left cheek.

  Ef. I bring the heel of my hand to my face, trying to wipe it off.

  “Did I get it?”

  “No,” Rafa says. “The other left cheek.”

  I try the other left cheek. Rafa shakes his head. He points to my face. “There.”

  “Here?”

  “No, there.”

  “Did I get it?”

  “No, there.”

  “There where? Where the hell is it?” I’m wiping my fingers all over my face, trying to find this stray speck of chocolate. “God damnit, Rafa!”

  Rafa is laughing now, and I am too, the kind of laughter that makes my sides ache. I probably look like a murder victim with all this chocolate smeared on my face, but whatever—I’m too busy trying to breathe to care what’s going on with my face.

  “Here,” he says, reaching out. “Let me help you.”

  He swipes his thumb—that thumb—across the edge of my bottom lip. A charge of electricity gathers at the base of my skull and races through my body, sparks flying between my legs. My laughter dies, slowly, and I’m left looking at Rafa looking at me, his fingers hovering above my face, my lips tingling like they’d very much like to be kissed.

  It’s so ridiculous, I know, something straight out of a rom-com; the manly-yet-charming guy wiping a bit of ketchup, or maybe it’s ice cream, off the smitten girl’s face. A bit of intense, heated staring ensues, that moment of delicious hesitation before the guy leans in and plants a wet one on his lady love.

  Who knew such romantic things happened in real life, too? I am in this ridiculous moment right now. And I have no idea what to do.

  My heart is pounding.

  Rafa’s blue eyes search mine. His teeth flash between parted lips. I wonder what he would taste like. What it would feel like to run my tongue along the seam of his perfect lips, to take that bottom lip between my teeth.

  Say yes, a voice whispers inside my head. Let him kiss you.

  I think he’s leaning closer. The heady scent of his aftershave envelopes me, and my eyes flick to his lips. Those intimidatingly perfect lips.

  I don’t know why I do it. I’m embarrassed, maybe; more likely it’s fear that has me pulling away, abruptly, my cheeks burning as I finger one of my churros. What if I forgot how to kiss? What if my breath smells? What if my eyeliner is smudged and I look like a raccoon? I am certainly no smitten heroine. I can’t afford to be.