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—" Perdona Si Te Llamo Cayetano Raquel Tirado Fe...
The orange glow of the Madrid sunset bounced off the glass buildings of Paseo de la Castellana, but for Raquel, the view was mostly blocked by the back of a very expensive, very well-tailored navy blazer. Raquel rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop
Raquel looked at her watch. She was supposed to be meeting friends in Malasaña, a world away from the starched shirts and signet rings of this neighborhood. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker of humor that didn't fit the 'Cayetano' mold. Raquel looked at her watch
"Right," she said, straightening up and handing him a soggy mass of napkins. "Perdona si te llamo 'Cayetano,' but I feel like you probably have a sailboat named after your grandmother and a very strong opinion on polo shirts."
"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."