The man looked down at his ruined shoes, then up at her. He had that effortless, slightly tousled hair that looked like it cost a hundred euros to maintain and a smile that suggested he’d never had a bad day in his life. "It’s fine," he said, his voice smooth and maddeningly polite. "They were getting old anyway. All three weeks of them."
She had bumped into him—literally—outside a coffee shop in Salamanca. Her iced latte had done a graceful, tragic arc onto his suede loafers. Perdona Si Te Llamo Cayetano Raquel Tirado Fe...
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. The man looked down at his ruined shoes, then up at her
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. "They were getting old anyway