Stefi and the Spanish Prince

by Donna Freitas

Genres: YA Contemporary Romance; YA Romance

Synopsis

Fans of Red, White, and Royal Blue and Loveboat, Taipei will swoon for this steamy, outrageously fun royal romance set against the backdrop of beautiful Barcelona.

In Barcelona, the beach is beautiful, the tapas are delicious, and the boys are plentiful. Good thing, too, because Stefi’s nursing a broken heart after a disastrous breakup and is excited to reinvent herself, practice her Catalan language skills, and take baking classes at the legendary culinary institute, all in a magical city where no one knows her.

Another thing Barcelona has? A secret prince. Xavi Borges is spending his final summer of anonymity helping his mother run a popular tapas spot in El Mercado. But after Stefi stops at their counter, Xavi can’t get the beautiful American girl off his mind, even though his life is way too complicated for romance.

Part bodyguard, part confidante, Santiago is tasked with keeping Xavi out of trouble. Santiago knows Xavi and Stefi’s budding relationship can’t last once Xavi’s real identity becomes public. But soon Santiago is crushing on Xavi’s best friend, Diego, and his focus shifts from royal protection duties to the possibility of enjoying a romance of his own.

With so many sparks flying, a threat to expose Xavi’s royal secret goes unheeded, and when the news blows up, it threatens to burn down all of their lives.

Release date: July 23, 2024

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 352

Sample

Part One
Welcome to Barcelona

 

One

The open-air market was packed on a Saturday.

Abuelitas with their grocery carts trailing behind them lobbied to get the exact right chicken at the poultry stall, the one with the longest line and all the people shouting over each other. Locals filled their canvas bags full of gorgeous, colorful fruit, vegetables just picked from a nearby farm, bright yellow and orange peaches, so ripe they were nearly bursting. Tourists with their fresh-squeezed juices milled about with their fanny packs and sunglasses and baseball hats, wandering and marveling at the beautiful mountains of tomatoes, of plums, of red and green peppers, of counters filled with dozens of different kinds of olives, of stalls with barrel after barrel of nuts, rice, and beans. One stall displayed every kind of gumdrop imaginable, hill after hill of candy-colored beauty, watermelon pink, lime green, Mediterranean blue. American tourists especially loved to gawk at the more unusual fare for them: pigs’ feet, pig snouts, the head of a small goat, the entire body of a rabbit, eyes and all, skinned and ready to go straight into the oven. If you liked that sort of thing.

As it turned out, Stefi did like that sort of thing. Rabbit was kind of delicious. But she wouldn’t tell anyone with a bunny she thought so.

“You like the strawberries?” a man behind a wall of fruit asked Stefi in English. She had paused by his stall, always risky if she was not planning on buying. The people who worked here didn’t like tourists who stared and snapped photos but didn’t purchase anything. “They are the best in the whole market!” he shouted at her over the red and yellow and green hills of produce.

“No, thank you,” she told him in Spanish, even though her mother was always trying to convince her that when she was here at La Boqueria, one of the most famous markets in all of Spain, she should practice her catalán. Everyone in Barcelona spoke Spanish, but the true language of this region and its people was catalán.

The man smiled and shrugged as though to say, Your loss, you silly American.

Stefi shrugged back, but this time she told him to have a nice day in catalán (“Adéu!”), and his eyes widened when he heard her speak like a local. She turned the corner of the aisle, headed toward her favorite cheese stall. “Where is it?” she muttered as she passed the giant wheels of manchego, the gooey Tortas del Casar, the orange slabs of membrillo that add a dab of sweetness to the sharpest of these Spanish cheeses. Stefi rubbernecked at all the deliciousness because she could not help herself. But then her attention snapped back into focus. Today she was looking for one place in particular, a tapas counter where last weekend she ate something so memorable, she hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. Hence her return trip on a Saturday morning. Stefi was a connoisseur when it came to food, too—her dream was to be a pastry chef.

She was trying to remember the place’s name, but it was eluding her. La Torta? No. El Pulpo? No. That was the word for octopus, and Stefi didn’t remember seeing octopus on the menu. La Boca? Maybe. Maybe that was it. That would make sense. Boca was the word for “mouth,” and she was fairly sure the name began with a B.

Stefi stopped near another stall that sold only cured pork products. Jamón serrano, jamón ibérico, fuet, black sausage. Even chocolate sausage. It was amazing the different kinds of sausage you could find in Barcelona. A special kind of fresh sausage called butifarra unique to the region was filled with things like asparagus, mushrooms, even apples or figs or curry. Her own abuela loved to eat it and cook it at home and was always trying to get Stefi to try some strange new flavor. Last time it was butifarra packed with “mushrooms of death,” and Stefi soon learned there was nothing like having some good death mushrooms in your sausage for lunch.

She looked around, trying to get her bearings. This place was big; it 

was easy to get lost.

“You should have paid better attention, Stefi,” she told herself. Then she told herself to stop talking to herself.

The heat hung so heavy, the air almost shimmered. The day was bright and sunny and blue-skied, because it was always bright and sunny and blue-skied in Barcelona. So much that when it did rain, residents behaved as if it were a special treat, using it as the American equivalent of a snow day, reveling in the watery excuse to stay in bed or curl up on the couch and watch television for hours.

Then again, the sun might be hot overhead, but inside La Boqueria there was shade. A great waving metal structure soared above the market to block out the glare of so much light.

A woman working at a nearby stall was eyeing Stefi like she was some suspicious character, maybe a thief, from behind sloping hills of eggs. Eggs were sold one by one, white, brown, medium, large, extra-extra-large, all of them unrefrigerated. There were even eggs that were a pretty light blue. A person could buy two, three, seven—however many she wanted. They were so fresh that tiny feathers still clung to them. Stefi eyed them hungrily now. The eggs from this market were the best she’d ever eaten. The yolks were bright orange.

Stefi smiled, gave the woman a wave, and moved on. She stopped at the next cross between aisles and glanced left, then right, before heading into the circular heart and soul of La Boqueria, one of the sights that made it so famous.

Great beds of ice stretched and curved, one after the other, topped with amazing whole fish, yellow, blue, gray, so fresh their eyes were completely clear, still clinging to life. Stefi paused to admire a particularly large fish whose name translated to “raptor” in English—as in the ferocious dinosaur of Jurassic Park fame. Each time Stefi saw the mouth of the raptor gaping wide with its rows of sharp, scary needle teeth, she thought about how she would definitely not like to meet one while taking a dip at the local beach in La Barceloneta neighborhood. Stefi shuddered as she passed it, careful not to slip on the perpetually wet floor in this part of the market. She emerged from the market’s fishy heart and was halted by a large group of French-speaking tourists. When they didn’t seem like they’d be budging any time soon, she poked the back of one of the men. “Perdón. ¡Perdón!”

The man glanced Stefi’s way but didn’t move. People liked to complain about American tourists, but really, they were pretty nice as far as visitors went. They didn’t dress as fashionably as most of the Europeans, but they were generally polite and well-meaning. The crowd of tourists finally shifted, and Stefi squeezed by.

There. There! Her

 destination.

La Buena. That was its name. Not La Boca. La Buena, as in “the good” or “the good thing” or even “the beautiful,” depending on the translation. She should have known it was back here, where there were a series of tapas counters rounded by metal stools so people could sit for a quick espresso or a plate of boquerones in vinegar or, better still, some sliced jamón from the leg of it sitting on the countertop. Or these giant shrimp Spain was famous for that Stefi had never seen anywhere else. Stefi nearly swooned in anticipation of all the bounty she hoped was about to come her way, both human and otherwise, all of which she felt she’d like to eat. Yum.

La Buena was already busy this morning, except for one lonely stool that had Stefi’s name on it. She made a beeline for the open seat and snagged it just before someone else, nearly crashing into the man sitting to the right. He gave Stefi a look like he was none too happy about his new neighbor, like Stefi was interrupting his Saturday-morning tapa, which he was washing down with a tiny glass of beer.

“¿Perdón?” she said, with a slight shrug and an Oops, so sorry smile.

He glowered a bit before resuming his inhalation of the Spanish tortilla in front of him.

The tortilla was the reason Stefi had come, the best version of that amazing gooey Spanish omelet that she’d tasted in all of Barcelona. Well, Stefi returned for the food, sure, but there was one other thing pulling her here that surpassed her culinary interests.

She raised her hand to try and get someone’s attention. “Hola,” she called to the woman working behind the counter. The woman was her mother’s age, maybe slightly younger, with wild, curly hair and startlingly Barcelona-sky-blue eyes. The woman didn’t seem to hear her. “¿Hola?” she tried again.

The woman turned around. “What would you like, my love?” she asked, her English perfect but with a glorious accent. Musical, mesmerizing, sensual like this market and all the food here. If only Stefi could be that appealing, maybe her summer wouldn’t have started out so disastrously—with betrayal and heartbreak, followed by more betrayal and then a transatlantic flight.

“Tortilla with pan con tomate, please,” Stefi told her.

“Of course!” The woman turned around to begin preparing it.

Unlike other places, La Buena served tortilla fresh and hot. Stefi watched her beating the eggs, pouring them into the well-oiled skillet, and adding the yummy potato-onion mixture at its center. She was impatient for a taste. But eventually her attention drifted to the door that led to a closet-like prep space. Stefi watched and waited, but so far, nothing.

Her other motive for coming today didn’t seem to be panning out.

A motive who happened to take the shape of an extremely handsome, tortilla-making guy her age or close to that, if Stefi had to bet. She guessed he must be the son of the woman cooking her omelet. His hair was as wild as his mother’s, though straight, not curly, and long, like he was some sort of hot Viking warrior who’d found his way to the gates of this old city, ready to conquer the ladies with his flashing blue eyes. And, boy, would Stefi

like to be conquered by him.

As Stefi waited for her tortilla to be ready, she thought back to last weekend. Just like now, she’d been sitting at this very counter waiting for her omelet when she spied this gorgeous boy, a sighting that had inspired more than a few bodice-ripping fantasies like in the romance novels she read during her free time. At one point, this boy disappeared into the back room of La Buena, apparently to retrieve more eggs, and she’d half expected him to reemerge with a sword strapped to his back and proceed to ravish her. That, at least, had been her hope.

Alas, there had been no ravishing.

Except for in her imagination.

In her Viking-related fantasies over the past week, the boy always eventually swooped Stefi up onto his horse and they would ride off . . . through the busy streets of Barcelona full of tourists? Stefi wasn’t picky, so this sounded fine. Then, when they arrived wherever they were going, usually someplace secluded and private—perhaps the beach or the far side of Montjuic, which was always really deserted—they’d get down from the horse so that plenty of bodice-ripping could ensue. She would finally get to run her hands through all that silky hair of his, and the boy would look her in the eyes and—

“Here you go!”

“Oh!” Stefi nearly fell off her stool as a round, bright yellow tortilla appeared in front of her. “Sorry, thank you.”

The wild-haired tortilla-making woman smiled kindly. “Ah, so you were having daydreams. This is a good city for daydreaming.”

If only the woman knew Stefi’s daydreams were as hot as the tortilla on her plate and involved a boy who was likely her son. She felt her skin flushing all the way up her neck and onward to her forehead. Stefi bent low to inhale the delicious smell of the omelet and smiled back at the tortilla-maker. “Barcelona is a beautiful place.”

The woman filled a small glass with filtered water and placed it on the counter next to Stefi’s plate. “Are you here on vacation with your family?”

Stefi shook her head. The poor woman had no idea what a complicated question this was for Stefi to answer. “No” was all she said.

The woman’s thick, dark eyebrows arched. “You’re living here?”

“Sort of? For the summer, at least.”

“Oh, so a summer-abroad program?”

Stefi’s eyes dropped to her plate again. She picked up the tiny silver fork sitting atop the paper napkin. “No, not that either.” She sighed. “My mom is Catalán, my dad is American. He promised my mom we’d come back here to live one day. Apparently that day has arrived. Maybe. The jury is still out if we’ll stay past summer.”

“Hmm, that is interesting,” the woman said. “But you don’t sound convinced.”

The man Stefi had nearly toppled off his stool sipped his mini-beer and

eavesdropped on the two women. The people to Stefi’s right paid their check and left their seats vacant for some other happy patrons. Surely they would fill in seconds.

Stefi poked at the center of her tortilla. Soon she’d be able to eat it without burning her tongue. The middle was molten. The smell of something delicious but unidentifiable wafted toward her from the grill and she wondered what it was. Calamari, maybe? “It’s hard to leave everyone and move halfway across the world,” she said.

“Ahh, I see.” The woman brushed a stray black curl from her face. “There must be a girlfriend or a boyfriend back home, yes?”

Red crept up Stefi’s neck again; she could feel her skin burning. “That’s a complicated question too.” Stefi refrained from spilling any of the details, which were gory. They included a boyfriend of three years, Jason, cheating on his girlfriend with a best friend. The girlfriend would be Stefi; the best friend would also be Stefi’s, and went by the name of Amber.

So before her family left for Barcelona this summer, Stefi lost the two most important people in her life in one go. In the romance version of her current life, while in Barcelona, Stefi would meet the boy of her dreams and forget all about the terrible situation that preceded this trip.

The tortilla-maker’s eyes clouded with sympathy. “Relationships always are complicated.”

“Yesss,” she sighed heavily.

The woman patted Stefi’s hand. “Endings make room for new beginnings, yes?”

Stefi smiled wide; she couldn’t help it. “Yesss,” she concurred again. The woman was right, and Stefi had thought of this as well. This summer could be an opportunity if she let it, a chance for her to reinvent herself. On the flight here, Stefi decided she was going to be daring this summer. She was going to do things people like Jason, her ex, and Amber, her ex–best friend, would never imagine her capable of. If a boy with a sword and a horse wanted to whisk Stefi off someplace private, for example, Stefi was going to throw caution to the wind for once and say yes to all of it.

Stefi was about to say something else to the tortilla-maker about exactly this—well, not exactly this—when the two seats next to her were suddenly taken. The patrons spoke very fast in catalán. The only part Stefi caught was “Bon dia, Marta!” Both members of the couple leaned over the counter and gave the tortilla-maker a kiss on each cheek, because that’s how everyone greeted each other in Spain. Stefi listened to their talk but caught only a word here and there. But one of those words made her perk up and listen harder: fill, which was “son” in catalán. Marta was the tortilla-making woman’s name, Stefi learned, and she supposed the boy with the equally wild hair was the son to whom the couple referred.

Yeah. Him.

The tortilla was finally cool enough to eat, so Stefi took a bite. For a moment,

all else was forgotten: Jason, Amber, beautiful boys who might work at tapas counters at La Boqueria, finding a way to meet such boys. The omelet was even better than Stefi remembered. The center of it was gooey with potato and onion. The eggs were perfectly cooked and seasoned with salt. How did this woman, Marta, do this? Not all tortillas were created equal, and this one proved it. No wonder La Buena was always so packed.

Marta was suddenly in front of Stefi again. “You were here last weekend, yes? Another time you’ll tell me the story of what happened before you arrived, eh? Because you’ll be back again, yes? You like the tortilla, yes?”

Stefi nodded in agreement to all of Marta’s questions. Even if she hadn’t loved the food, it would have been difficult to say no to this Marta. She was like some sort of benevolent fairy queen who’d put a spell on Stefi with her prettiness and kindness and, of course, her culinary magic. “Definitely,” Stefi said and watched as Marta twirled away to attend to another new set of customers at the other end of the counter.

Her only disappointment was Marta’s absent son.

Oh, well. Maybe he’ll be here next week.

Stefi eyed her plate. Her tortilla already looked like it had been attacked by a desperately hungry animal. In barely a blink, she’d eaten half of it. Stefi decided she needed to enjoy the rest more slowly, so as she stabbed another piece with her fork and lifted it to her mouth, she closed her eyes to focus on the taste, which seemed to get even better the more it cooled. Stefi could only imagine the look on her face as she chewed, letting the flavors spread all over her tongue like her abuela, the original foodie in their family, had taught her. Eventually, Stefi swallowed. When she opened her eyes, once again she was startled. She was no longer alone. But it wasn’t Marta returning for more conversation.

A pair of blue eyes were staring back at Stefi, and they were full of laughter.

The Viking.

“You’re enjoying the tortilla?” he asked, also in perfect English. Of course his accent was nearly as attractive as his face. How could it not be?

Stefi tried to swallow again, but something caught in her throat and she nearly choked. She could feel her face getting red, and her eyes must have started to bulge because the Viking boy suddenly grabbed her glass, filled it with more water, and pushed it toward her. Stefi took it, gulped it down, and tried not to spit in the boy’s face as she coughed and sputtered. This had not been part of Stefi’s romantic fantasy of what would happen if she got the chance to meet this boy. She finished the water and he filled the glass again. Her right-side neighbors said something in catalán that she didn’t catch, and the Viking cracked up. Probably about her. Ugh. She drank down the second glass of water and finally felt like her voice might work again.

“Thank you,” she croaked.

The boy flicked his thick hair from his eyes in a practiced gesture, and Stefi once

again wished she could rake her fingers through it. “So I take it that’s a no?” he asked.

“No?”

“You’re not enjoying the tortilla?”

Stefi’s eyes widened. “Oh no! I mean, yes! I mean, I am very much enjoying the food your mother cooks. It is your mother, right? It’s even better than I remember from last week.” And you’re even hotter than I remember from last week, her brain added, luckily silently. Her inward swoon was also, gratefully, invisible.

The boy smiled, a look of pride on his face. “It’s true, my mother is an excellent cook. I was going to have to kick you out if you didn’t like our tortilla.”

The couple next to Stefi turned to her. “It is the best in all of Catalunya. We’ve been coming here for years to enjoy Marta’s magic.”

Stefi’s other neighbor, the man sipping the tiny beer and eavesdropping, grunted. “Me too. But we try to keep it a secret from the tourists, so don’t go taking photos and putting them on one of those stupid social media sites that end up ruining everything the locals enjoy.”

“Be nice, Arnau,” said the Viking boy to the cranky man. He grabbed the glass and filled it with beer again. “This one’s on the house, all right?”

“Don’t worry, I would never do that,” Stefi told everyone around her. She refrained from mentioning how she was on a summer-long social media fast anyway, since she couldn’t bear to witness the public blossoming of the relationship between her former boyfriend and her former best friend.

Another boy appeared from the tiny closet prep-space at the center of La Buena. He was around the Viking’s age, and he was holding a giant bowl of cut-up potatoes. He was followed by an older but also handsome man; it was like the tiny room was a clown car full of good-looking people. Between the three men and the one beautiful woman cooking at the stove, the establishment seemed strangely glamorous.

The Viking placed his hands flat on the countertop on either side of Stefi’s plate and stared at her boldly. Stefi would have been lying if she claimed she didn’t notice the way it made the long, tan muscles in his arms tighten and expand. She would also have been lying if she claimed that she wasn’t imagining right then what it would be like to have those arms wrapped around her. “If you promise not to spill the culinary secrets of this city,” he said, “I’ll give you another few places to try while you’re here on vacation.”

“I’m not—” Stefi started, but the Viking’s mother swirled by, hip-checking her son.

“The girl’s not on vacation, my darling, her family is living here,” she said before delivering the two steaming tortillas in her hands to the newest customers to Stefi’s far left.

Had Stefi detected a warning tone in Marta’s voice?

But the Viking’s eyes filled with mischief. “Oh, really?” He was about to say something else when the other young man appeared at 

his side.

“You’ve got to go, it’s time,” he said.

The Viking rolled his eyes at him, then looked at Stefi again. “You’ll have to forgive my cousin, he can be very rude.”

Stefi opened her mouth to say not to worry, but the cousin said to Stefi, “I definitely don’t mean to be rude, but this one is needed in the back urgently. The onions are calling to him.”

The Viking erupted into catalán. Even though Stefi couldn’t understand the words, she could tell he wasn’t happy. Before the cousin could physically pull him away, the Viking leaned over the counter where Stefi was sitting, captured her gaze, and held it. Not like this was hard, since Stefi was more than willing to gaze back. “I’m Xavi, by the way,” he said. “And you are?”

“Stefi.”

A low rumbling laugh erupted from his throat. “That’s perfect,” he said, more to himself than to Stefi.

She blinked at him. “Perfect?”

“Your name. Stefi, like Estefanía, right? It’s the Spanish version of Stephanie, but its derivation is from the Greek for ‘crown,’” he added before the cousin yanked Xavi into the prep room again.

Marta appeared in front of Stefi and took her empty plate. “I hope you have a very good summer,” she said as if advising Stefi not to return to La Buena, even though moments ago she’d asked if Stefi would come back the following week. Stefi’s fantasies of horses, swords, a summer of exciting escapades on private beaches with long-haired boys named Xavi began to fade. “Estefi,” Marta added with finality.

Stefi put down the money to pay and slid off the stool startled, this time with disappointment. “Thank you for the most delicious tortilla I’ve ever had in my life,” she said by way of goodbye.

Marta’s expression softened. “You’re very welcome. And Xavi is correct—there are many good places for you to try. You should do your best to enjoy them all. I wish you well. I really do hope you have a  wonderful summer.”

Two

“I saw how you were talking to the girl,” Marta said.

Xavi watched his mother pouring eggs into the tortilla pan for what must be the hundredth time, and it was only noon. Marta spoke to him only in English. She was forever making Xavi practice, even though his command of the language was nearly perfect. If it weren’t for Xavi’s thick Spanish accent, people would probably think he was a native speaker. Marta had made sure of this by sending Xavi to the special British international school, Queen Elizabeth’s, in the tony heart of Barcelona’s Eixample neighborhood. It was situated within a few blocks of some of the most famous buildings in the city designed by Antoni Gaudí, also the architect of the city’s legendary unfinished cathedral, La Sagrada Familia. With its magical colors and whimsical sculptures, there were always endless lines of tourists waiting to enter it.

Instead of answering his mother, Xavi scooped the potato and onion mixture into the center of the tortilla Marta was making.

But he knew exactly the girl to which she referred. The eye-catching American he’d flirted with boldly this morning. Her long hair and those flashing eyes had captured his attention. Well, her eyes and hair, plus a pair of long legs and delicate shoulders, not to mention all those curves. She’d had Xavi imagining all the different ways he could convince her to let him kiss her even though they’d just met. He should have been less obvious about it, given that his mother had been standing right there watching him the entire time.

Marta continued to stare at her son.

“I’d better get those beers,” he said and moved toward the tap at the center of the counter.

Marta and Xavi loved each other fiercely. He was grateful Marta fought for him to have every possible opportunity so doors might open in the future. He knew Marta loved their little tapas place, but his mother didn’t want this life for her son. Financial need coupled with Xavi’s academic promise had won him scholarships to attend Queen Elizabeth’s, the school that attracted the children of diplomats and politicians and some of the richest families in all of Catalunya. This was also how Xavi ended up with friends who vacationed in Monaco and Ibiza, children of the rich who shopped for couture on Passeig de Gràcia, the Fifth Avenue of the city, instead of in the cheap fast-fashion stores like Zara and Primark like the rest of Marta and Xavi’s circle. This was also how Xavi ended up dating Isabel de Luna, the most notorious of all the rich girls at his very wealthy school—notorious for about a million different reasons, among them that her parents were a marqués and a marquesa, actual titled Spanish royalty.

As Xavi was busy pulling a dozen cañas for some of their regular patrons, the small glasses of beer Barcelona residents often drank in the mornings with their breakfast, he felt his mother’s gaze still on him as she cooked, waiting for him to say something.

Both Marta and Xavi could make La Buena’s most famous tapa with their eyes closed. There were many possible translations of “la buena” in Spanish, but one of them was “the correct,” as in “the right way.” Marta had chosen this name for their restaurant with care and precision. How exactly to make the typical Spanish

omelet had always been cause for fierce debate in this hot, sunny country on the coast of the Mediterranean: With onions and potatoes or with only potatoes? People fought about this in the food columns of newspapers, argued about it in instructional videos on YouTube, and judged each other ruthlessly depending on which side a person came down with respect to this eternal question. According to Marta, onions were an essential ingredient, so this was her way of announcing to the world that she had settled the question definitively. Her way was the one.

A perfectly round, smoldering omelet rose high into the air with an experienced flip of Marta’s wrist, and she caught it again in the simmering pan without looking. “Xavi, I’m not going to let this go,” she said.

Xavi was certain that she wouldn’t. His mother could be relentless.

Meanwhile, the patrons at the counter watched Marta work with fascination. Her talent was evident, but so was her striking beauty.

Xavi finished pulling the cañas from the beer tap.

Marta elbowed her son. “Eh? The girl who was here just now? Don’t think I didn’t see.”

The girl. Xavi noted Marta didn’t say that girl, as though the American in question were someone random; she’d said the girl, as though she were the only girl who’d appeared this morning even though there had been plenty. Xavi often wondered why he’d had to end up with such an observant mother. Lately, she was on him for just about every move he made. He understood why, but he didn’t have to like this shift in his mother’s behavior.

He dealt out the cañas to the patrons who’d ordered them. “What girl?” he asked Marta with a shrug. Before she could press him further, he took advantage of the fact that the line for a seat at La Buena was now so long, ...