**

The next morning after settling in, I eat a plate of torrijas on the balcony of my room followed by a well-needed nap. I'm invited by a group of girls at the villa to go shopping in the city. Some of them are Quintanillas—Salvador's daughters or nieces that are the epitome of Colombian beauty with their long black hair and golden skin. The others in the groups are friends or girlfriends of the male attendees, and of course, Esmeralda—Salvador's wife.

I shower and decide on my outfit for the day—baby-blue sundress with comfortable sandals. As I get dressed, I'm tempted to check my phone, but talk myself out of the action.

"This is your time to relax," I remind myself while putting on my makeup. "Time to relax, and shop, and eat delicious food and improve on your Spanish."

That last part was said in much seriousness. I wish my Spanish was proficient enough to have completely translated Alejandro's letter to me; linking the messy, cursive-esque state of his handwriting with the message would have been profoundly more resonating with me, which is odd; I can't get that letter out of my mind even if I couldn't understand some of the words.

After spritzing on some perfume, I met the group downstairs in the foyer and introduced myself to everyone. Salvador's daughters, Yitzel and Guadalupe ('Lupita' for short) were a little older than I; maybe around Alejandro's age. Then there's Jillian and Sasha, with Esmeralda being our 'guide'—Esmeralda is of course leading the group. The first thing I notice is everyone's hospitality—they are all so nice and generous, welcoming me in with open arms and considerate questions.

We head to one of Barcelona's major avenues, Passeig de Gràcia, to start our shopping venture. In Stella McCartney, the associates tend to ever single need we have. Esmeralda and Yitzel speak animatedly to the employees in Spanish about the handbags with Jillian and Sasha, whereas Lupita and I look at the dresses they have. Seeing the "night-life" attire reminds me that I need to figure out what I'm going to wear for the date with Alejandro tonight. I don't think I have anything too appropriate for the occasion, so the best option would be for me to buy something while we're out.

Although both friendly, Lupita is a little gentler in her kindness than her sister, Yitzel—soft-spoken, sweet and humble. Yitzel, however, I can hear laughing and chatting up the staff while she tries on a pair of heels. Lupita quietly sifts through the hats, asking me for approval on the ones she likes while apologizing for her accent, under the impression that it's too 'strong' (contrarily, her English is excellent and her accent isn't as thick as she thinks). What amazes me is how 'normal' this is for the Salvador sisters. The guards that Salvador assigned with us are an everyday thing for them; this life of luxury and traveling is an everyday thing for them. I want to ask Lupita so many questions about it.

"Do you see anything you like?" Lupita asks me.

"Not yet—at least not for what I had in mind."

"For your date with Lobo, right?"

It takes me a minute to realize who Lobo is. Lupita smiles; I don't even ask how she knew about the date.

"Yeah. I don't think I brought anything cute enough."

"I'll help you today," Lupita proposes. "Is that okay?"

"Perfect, actually. I could use the help."

"Great." Lupita starts pulling out dresses from another rack—an associate quickly rushes to help her. "Are you excited?" she asks me.

'Nervous' is a better adjective. Honestly, this will be the first time that I have gone on a legitimate date with another man in a while. Yes, a couple of months ago, Sebastian and I had dinner at his house, but to us it wasn't a 'date' (even though we had sex later that same night). But this? This is a real fucking date. And my anxiety heightens as the hours roll by.

I'm transparent with Lupita and admit that I am indeed nervous. She thinks it's cute but a waste of time.

"My cousin seems intimidating when you first get to know him, but trust me, he is the biggest sweetheart when he warms up to you. The thing about Colombian men is that they love to spoil their women—showering you with flowers, taking you out on lavish dates, calling you mami all the time, things like that; you'd be the most important thing in his life."

"If he's serious?"

Lupita nods slowly, having caught herself. "Unfortunately, yes. Alejandro is a sweetheart, but he can be a little...misleading. He gets bored quickly if he isn't serious about something."

Well, that's a great thing to hear before I go on a date with this man. I'm not too surprised, though. Alejandro is sweet, protective and generous, but he's also mysterious and very charming. And excessive charm can be a mask for manipulation—I've had my fair share of time dealing with men that use this tactic. I don't want to doubt his character, but at the same time, it pays to still be cautious.

"Do you like him?" Lupita then asks. "I mean really like him."

I sigh; I'm tired of catching feelings and coming face-to-face with them. "Yes. I do; I'm interested."

"Then my advice would be to lead him on," she says, immersed in her own advice. "Tease him. You know, give him a taste then leave him high and dry. Alejandro does get bored quickly with things that don't interest him, but I'll tell you that whenever Alejandro truly wants something, that man does not rest until he gets it. So, want to find out his true intentions? Lead him on. If he really wants you, he won't give up on you—to the point where he'll become fed up with playing cat and mouse and finally tell you what he wants."

I think heavily about Lupita's advice. I've never intentionally led a man on; if I ever have, it was accidental and for a logical reason: either I truly didn't want anything to do with them or I feared getting hurt and just ignored their advances. But to play dirty and tease Alejandro? That's a game he'd definitely play.

"You think this will work?"

"Oh, I know this will work." Lupita rolls her eyes playfully. "I know my cousin; he's predictable to me at this point. Personally, I think he really does like you. But sometimes, men have other intentions. Do this, and you'll know what they are."

Having absorbed this sacred knowledge, we continue on our shopping trip, Lupita and I dedicated to finding a dress for me to wear tonight. Finally, Lupita insist that I wear one she picks out from a boutique called De Moda, deep in a historical street filled with tourists. When she pulls it out for me, I give her an uncomfortable smile. I've become more comfortable with my body and what I put on it lately, but I don't think I'm ready to wear something as risqué as this. The dress is satin—black, spaghetti strapped, low cut (very low cut) with a slit running up the left side of the dress. Maybe I would be more accepting of the dress if it was longer, but the hem ends right below the knees, meaning the slit is more revealing than I'd usually go for. When I try it on, I can't believe I'm actually wearing something like this. Sure, I look good. Really good. But since my boobs are so big, there's a big risk of 'Bonnie' and 'Clyde' slipping out. Lupita, however, will not let me leave the store without the dress. And after heavy convincing, I purchase it.

I'll figure out the 'tata' situation later.

**

One thing about Spain that I didn't become aware of beforehand was that when Spaniards party, they don't get home at two in the morning, but instead leave for the scene at two in the morning; they party until the sun comes up. Literally. All. Night.

Alejandro thought midnight was fair, and so did I. So when 11:30PM strikes, I replace my bathrobe with that little black satin dress and pair it with open-toed heels that don't put too much of a strain on my feet. After doing my makeup (I went classic with winged eyeliner and red lipstick) I take out the clip in my hair and let it fall down my shoulders, hours of laborious hair-straightening put to good use. It's a chore trying not to look at myself in the mirror, because if I do, I will second guess myself about wearing this dress. Instead, I take a deep breath, grab my purse and head out of my room. Walking down the hall, I coach myself about how the night will go—date, maybe a thankful kiss on the cheek, and that's it. That is it. If Lupita is right, I have to stand back and make sure that Alejandro's intentions are as honest as he says they are.

I walk out into the foyer and look around for Alejandro. The only people around are some security guards standing by the door and staircase. I check the time on my phone—12:45 in the morning.

"Where is he?" I ask myself. When I begin texting him, he happens to cut by a corner with Julio and Paisa right next to him. They speak lowly to him as he stares forward and mumbles things in response. His hair is different—hanging down in simple waves and curls instead of slicked back away from his eyes like it usually is. The outfit he has on—burgundy button-down with black pants—fits him perfectly; his body fills into it very nicely. I turn the other direction when I find myself biting my lip at him, looking around the room as he continues listening to Paisa's critical words, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Alejandro look at me and decrease the tempo of his steps until he's brought to a halt. That hard, drained expression he had moments before is replaced with this shocked smile—a smile that's an extreme rarity with him. I pout my lips in an attempt not to smile at his disbelief.

Alejandro walks again, one step at a time like he's trying to fully grasp my image. Once he's close enough, he grabs my hand and whistles lowly at me.

"Que Hermosa," he drawls out quietly.

He spins be around with my hand in his inked one and takes my entire outfit in while showering me with compliments in Spanish (most of them I surprisingly understand). I feel my cheeks getting hot from the attention and slip my hand out of his. I remember what Lupita said—once Colombian men (or any Spanish-speaking man, rather) calls you 'mami,' that's when they start to reel you in.

I'd be lying if I said that I wouldn't like Alejandro calling me mami, though.

"Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself."

I'm a horrible liar. It's a sin how hot he looks, especially how he did his hair; his dark curls are unruly and long but fit well with the rest of him. God, I'm sweating.

"So, where are you taking me?" I ask him.

"It's a surprise," he replies, smirking. "You'll find out when we get there."

I hate surprises. But for Alejandro? I'll indulge in his game.

"Well, did I at least wear the right shoes?"

Alejandro shakes his head and holds my hand. I don't bother slipping out of his grip. "You wore the right everything," he says to me.

Fuck, he's too good.

Alejandro walks me out of the house and out into the driveway. The air is warm but pleasant, the smell of the sea stronger than it was this afternoon. The driver of the SUV parked out front hops out, gives Alejandro an enthusiastic welcome and opens the door for us. The entire drive down there, I'm wondering what he has planned for us—maybe a late dinner like we agreed, or dancing (I hope not. I have no intentions of embarrassing myself tonight). But when we arrive in the city, our first stop is in The Gothic Quarter— in Catalan—in the Ciutat Vella district of beautiful Catalonia. I follow Alejandro through the ancient walkways and between the intricate medieval-styled architecture. He explains to me the history of the quarter and the inspiration for its design as I stare in awe at the tall buildings surrounding us. This place is beautiful—secluded and narrow but quiet and distant from the modern streets and environment of the city. The street lights subtly light the walls and the pavement but not bright enough to drown out the star-lit sky above us.

He takes me to a small but beautiful restaurant away from the tourists in the district squares, hidden in a quaint courtyard that looks handcrafted. Inside, the restaurant is dark and romantic. It's nearly empty (most likely from its secluded location), but I'm more than happy about the fact. There's a small winding staircase that leads to the second floor with tall ceilings and authentic décor hanging on all of the walls like we're dining right on the Spanish coast.

A man (who is most likely the owner) is joyous when he sees Alejandro walk in. They embrace and have a short animated conversation in their mother tongue before Alejandro introduces him to me in English. The man—Antonio—kisses me on my cheek and asks me how I like Barcelona so far.

"I love it." I take in the restaurant once again. "The city is magical."

"Even more magical at night, señora." Antonio hinted. And not only is Barcelona magical but so is the food. Alejandro and I were seated on the top floor and enjoyed tapas to start—a plate of small empanadillas followed by a big dish of Suquet de Peix for the main dish—potato-based dish topped with shrimp and clam, flavored with garlic and spices. We eat and talk about simple things; I appreciate the fact that we aren't talking about work or our families (especially mine) while we're together. When we talk about the city and about the beaches that neither of us has had a chance to dive into yet, Alejandro hints that he and I should go to the beach right outside the villa. I'm close to agreeing to his proposition, but instead, I reply with a "we'll see" that makes Alejandro bite his lip in an attempt to hide the smile that stemmed from my teasing.

Antonio comes by and fills up our glasses with Spanish red wine—wine that Alejandro insists will satisfy my taste buds. As Antonio leaves the bottle in on the table underneath a black cloth, I sip out of my glass as Alejandro watches me.

"It's delicious," I say. "Probably among the best I've tried."

"You like?" Alejandro asks before calling Antonio. "A ella le gusta," he tells him. Antonio smiles with gratitude and continues assisting a couple down on the first floor.

"Antonio takes pride in his wine," Alejandro explains to me while taking a sip. He stares at me a while longer behind his thick eyelashes.

"What is it?" I ask, smiling.

"Nothing." He shakes his head. "It's nothing." But I know it's something. The way he's looking at me isn't the innocent look your date gives you when you look ravishing (like the look he gave me earlier), but more along the lines of his eyes ripping my dress off and taking me against the table. And I can't say that I'm not thinking what his face is reading, but I'm doing a better job at hiding it.

We finish our entrée and move to dessert. I'm almost too full to try it, but it looks so delicious that I have to.

"Crema Catalana," Alejandro says. It's a custard dish that reminds me of crème Brulee, made of cream, milk, egg yolks and vanilla, with cinnamon as well. Antonio is adamant that I'm going to enjoy it, as is Alejandro, but per my hesitance, Alejandro scoops the dessert on a spoon and holds it out for me to try.

"You trusted me on the red wine, si o no?" he says to me. I roll my eyes before leaning in and trusting his word. I welcome the spoon into my mouth and taste the sweet, crispy outer layer followed by the creamy center. There's a bit of a tangy aftertaste, but for the most part, the dessert is sweet and smooth on my tongue. It takes me a minute for me to come to a consensus; I laugh at Alejandro's expectant look.

"I love it," I beam. "It's delicious. Kind of reminds me of flan in terms of the texture."

Alejandro nods before taking some of the custard for himself. He uses the same spoon I used; he doesn't mind that my mouth was on it. He plays around with it in his mouth before giving an approving sigh.

"Perfecto." He licks his lips, and my lungs start working a little harder when he does. Unfortunately, he notices my pained expression. "¿'Qué te pasa, mami?" he asks me, frowning. "Why do you look like that?"

"No reason, it's just—it's hot in here," I laugh.

"Well, are you ready to go?"

"Only if you tell me where we're off to next."

That's too easy for him. Instead, he looks down at my shoes, approves with an eyebrow raise, and calls Antonio over for the check—one that he refuses to even let me tip on. I have an idea of where he wants to take me, and suddenly I chug the rest of my wine while taking the bottle from the ice bucket and filling up my glass again. Alejandro looks at me as if I'm some sort of enigma he has never encountered.

But if my prediction is correct, then being blitzed is my only hope for survival.

**

My prediction is correct—Alejandro is taking me out dancing.

He knows I'm terrified. For one, I know nothing about any type of Latin dance—salsa, cumbia, bachata, merengue, what have you. And in addition to that, I know nothing about the art of dance in its entirety (save for dancing, but then again, I'm sure every Scottish person in existence knows how to dance cèilidh). Put those factors together and it can only lead to disaster, especially since I have intentions of getting drunk to numb the embarrassment; contrarily, I'll happily dance when I'm drunk. The only difference is, it's a worse outcome than when I'm sober.

The club he takes me to is quite popular—El Bombón, right in the heart of the Barri Gòtic. It's crowded when we walk in but not uncomfortably so. Alejandro and I sit at the bar and order a couple of drinks. I start with a martini to keep things familiar.

The music is infectious in rhythm as heavy salsa plays from a live band. People dance, socialize and enjoy the atmosphere. Alejandro and I engage in small talk, only because he knows that I'm scared to get out on the floor and dance. He thinks it's funny; he watches me drink my martini until I'm drinking in the air pockets.

"The mojitos here are great," he tells me. "Would you like to try one?"

"Is it strong?"

He laughs. Hard. "Yes, they are strong."

"Then I'll take one."

Alejandro orders us both a mojito, and eventually, I end up drinking two more after that. It's safe to say that I'm drunk. I'm still aware, but I'm drunk. And Alejandro is a little tipsy too, but it's obvious that he's a heavyweight because he handles it like a professional.

The taste of lime and mint is dancing around in my mouth as the next song begins. It's fast-paced salsa that gets everyone moving. So far, five Barcelonan women have asked Alejandro to dance with them, and as the number of interested women gets higher, I get bolder. I feel bad that Alejandro keeps turning them down; they have all been gorgeous Latin knockouts who would definitely mop the floor with me once they start dancing.

I get up out of my chair and take my clutch with me. Alejandro is curious as to where I'm going.

"I'm just letting you know that I am an 'expressive' dancer," I warn him. And the sly smirk he gives me is answer enough. He jumps off his seat and takes my hand in his, and I feel like my heart is going to beat right out of my chest. But the fast-paced song has come to an end, and a slower song has begun. Thank God—looking like a fool in fast motion is mortifying.

We stood in an empty space where everyone was