Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad #2) (37 page)

Oh, how it works.

I look away, my face burning, and catch Katie staring me down from across the table. There’s a knowing gleam in her eye.

Talk to him!
He is
hot
!
she mouths, fanning herself.

I sip my sangria. It’s delicious, not too sweet, not too strong, refreshing in the heat. I sneak a glance at Rafa. He’s still standing next to me, the smell of his aftershave tickling my nostrils. My cheeks burn with the memory of his kisses.

I’m usually pretty shy around guys. Which probably explains why I don’t have many notches in my belt—and why, at twenty, I am still in possession of my v-card. I was ready to “do it,” as Maddie says, with the last guy I was with. A guy I thought I loved, a guy I thought loved me. But when I told him I was ready, he told me about the girlfriend he had back home. You know, the girlfriend he’d been dating the whole time he and I were together.

The girlfriend he was in love with.
 

Needless to say, the sex didn’t happen; apparently he didn’t consider oral sex cheating, but
sex
sex was where he drew the line.

After that, along with some seriously unsatisfying hookups, I swore I wouldn’t allow myself to get burned again. No more casual dating, no more booty calls. I want respect, I want real, and I want romance—the forever kind.

The kind I definitely can’t get with this guy—this ridiculously handsome Spanish pirate. He is way hotter than any guy I’ve ever been with or talked to. I should be intimidated. I should be crawling back into my shell.

But I don’t. He is so far above my pay grade it’s laughable. He is some random Madrileño dude, and chances are I’ll never see him again. If I do, I can order a bucket of sangria and drown myself in it.

I have nothing—absolutely
nothing
—to lose. Which makes me feel a hell of a lot less shy.

I look back at Katie and lift my shoulder, grinning.
Okay
.

“So, Rafa,” I say, turning to him. “You and Al are cousins?”

He nods, swallowing. “You know Alberto’s father is Spanish, yes?”

“I do,” I say. “But Al was born in New York.”

Rafa nods again. “Our fathers are brothers. My uncle moved to the United States to marry a woman he met at university there – those are Al’s parents. I went to live with them one summer to take classes at NYU. And now Alberto comes to live with us in Madrid while he studies.”

I sip my sangria. “Is that how you learned to speak English so well? Yours is very good. Way better than my Spanish.”

He grins, and oh,
God
, it tears a hole in whatever stuff my heart is made of. “Thank you. Students in Europe, we learn a lot of languages. Alberto definitely helped with my English, though. My family goes to New York to visit them—Al and my aunt and uncle—a lot.” He drains his glass. “Is your Spanish really so bad?”

I scoff into my sangria. “It’s abysmal. I can read it, and I can write it, but I can’t speak it. I get, like, flustered, trying to translate everything in my head. And my accent— yack.”

Rafa reaches for the pitcher on the table. “Yack?”

“Um,” I say, rolling my lips between my teeth. “You know, like. Throw-up? Puke? Just…totally gross.”

He laughs as he refills his glass. He looks up, his eyes meeting mine; there is a question there. I nod and hold out my glass. He fills it.

“Totally gross?” he says, setting the pitcher back on the table. “I think you are exaggerating. But it will help if you practice. All of the time, practice. Don’t think so much. And one night, when you have too much sangria, your Spanish will come.”

“I didn’t know sangria had such magical powers.”

Rafa shrugs. He takes a pull from his glass. “If it can make me dance like Justin Timberlake, then it can make you speak perfect Spanish.”

I don’t know if he mentions JT on purpose, but I appreciate the common cultural reference nonetheless. It helps me get my bearings, helps me feel a little less lost.

I bite my lip. “Justin Timberlake. Really?”

“Really.” He meets my eyes. His spark with mischief. “Justin Timberlake. It has been confirmed by people I trust.”

I don’t think Rafa needs much sangria at all to dance well. He’s one of those guys you can just tell knows his way around a dance floor.

One of those guys you can just tell is good in bed. Not that I have much practice. But still. There’s something so…quietly virile, confident about him. He would know what he was doing, and he would do it
well
.

“Well then.” I tip back my glass. “I definitely have some catching up to do.”

“I have a lot of practice with sangria,” Rafa says. “I am telling you the truth. I am very confident in this—that you will be speaking perfect Spanish by the end of the semester. Not only that. I think you will dream it, too.”

“That’s a tall order,” I say. “You have to be pretty fluent to dream in a different language.”

He smiles. The curving lines around his mouth deepen, making him look boyish. Cute. “I think you can do it.”

“I think your confidence is misplaced,” I say. “But I could use all the motivation I can get, so thanks.”

“Vale,” he says, using that quintessentially Spanish word with a thousand meanings I have yet to tease out. I’ve heard it described as “okay” or “cool,” but it seems like neither of those words fully capture its nebulous spirit. “You just need a little bit of courage, and you will figure it out.”

“Vale,” I reply. I’m teasing him now, flirting. Openly. It’s fun.

“See?” He nods at the glass in my hand. “Already, the sangria is working.”

“Hardly. Words are easy. But sentences?” I shake my head. “I need a lot more liquid courage for those.”

Over the rim of my cup, I notice Al is talking to some of the other guys from Meryton, his back angled away from Rafa and I; we’re cut off, secluded in our own little corner. The sounds and smells of the alley crowd around us, but it feels like we’re alone, somehow, the space between our bodies vibrating with silent warmth.

At least
I
feel it vibrating. I wonder if Rafa does, too, or if my sudden interest is unrequited. My crushes are usually—no, they’re
always
unrequited. No one ever looks twice at me. Ever. It’s like I’m always the bridesmaid, never the bride; I can make out with a guy, but he never seems to feel the fluttery things I do.
 

“You came to Spain to learn our language,” Rafa says. “But what else will you study while you’re here?”

I swallow my sangria. “Last semester I declared an Economics major, so I’ll be taking business classes, mostly. A literature class. And then I’d love to take some Spanish art history, but I don’t know if I’ll have room on my schedule for such a guilty pleasure. I don’t want to take too much on.”

“Guilty pleasure?” Rafa arches a brow. “Madrid has some of the best art museums in the world. There is nothing guilty about studying it, especially while you are here.”

“Have you?” I ask. “Studied art history, I mean.”

“I have. Quite a lot, actually. You, too?”

“Some classes. I love it, I do, but you can’t really do much with an art history major, so. Yeah.” I sip my sangria. “Who are your favorite painters?”

“I like all the Spanish painters. Goya. Velázquez.” He says the names in his perfect, succulent Spanish, and never in my life have I heard anything so sexy. I make note of his pronunciation, his accent;
Goy-
ja, Vel
ash-
quez; I will have to practice them later. “El Greco, even though he isn’t really Spanish. We still like to take credit for his genius. But my favorite? My favorite is Sorolla.”

I blink. Sor-r
oya
. “Sorolla? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

Rafa grins. “You must take art history, then, if only to learn of Sorolla. There is a whole museum here just for his work. I think it’s the best museum in all of Spain. I’ll take you there—even if you don’t take the art history class, you must see it.”

I don’t know if it’s the sangria—it’s probably the sangria—or the way Rafa is looking at me, but the backs of my knees begin to tingle. It’s my first night in Madrid, and here I am, getting my buzz on, talking my favorite thing—art! —with an incredibly good-looking Spaniard. He’s probably only offering to take me to this museum because he’s drunk and trying to be polite, but I don’t care. However fleeting it may be, even if nothing comes of it, I am in love with this moment.

And that’s got to count for something.

“The Sorolla Museum,” I say. “I’ll have to remember that. Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “I hope you like it here, Vivian. I know coming to a different country can be hard. The language, the food, all the little things—I remember being so homesick in New York when I first got there I called my parents ten times a day.”

I look down at my cup—almost empty now—and slowly nod my head. “I admit I’ve cried a little bit today. And by a little bit, I mean a lot.”

“It will get better,” he says. “You are here for, what, five months?”

“Almost six.”

“That probably feels like a lifetime right now, yes?”

I scoff. “It does, actually. That’s what I was crying about.”

When I look up, he is standing closer—there are people behind him now, pressing him toward me—and my heart skips a beat. We meet eyes. His reflect the soft glow of the lamps outside the bar; it’s getting dark, the air around us velvety. That tingle behind my knees moves to a full-on rush.

“I’m biased,” he says, “but if you do it right, Madrid is an easy place to fall for. Mostly because I live here.”

I smile and he smiles and the look in his eyes is so lovely it makes my stomach hurt in the best, the
best
way.
 

“So where are you taking us tonight?” I ask. “I’ve heard pretty amazing things about the nightlife here. I mean, no pressure or anything.”

He glances at his watch, a simple round face on a well-worn leather strap. “The bars close in a few hours. Then we will head to the discotecas—on Saturdays the best is Ático. We can start there.”

“I hope Justin Timberlake will be making an appearance?”

He holds up his glass, lets it tilt in his fingers. “He’d better. Otherwise I’m going to embarrass myself in front of my new friends.”

I laugh. “Yeah, somehow I think you’re going to put us all to shame, with or without Justin’s help. I’m not proud of my white girl moves.”

“But you’re not afraid to show them off,” he says, eyes sparking as he grins down at me.
 

“Hell no,” I say. “Especially not after I’ve had a little—more than a little—sangria.”

“Excellent.” Rafa taps his glass to mine. “Welcome to Madrid, Vivian. I’m glad you’re here.”

What does that mean?
It probably doesn’t mean anything. We’re just talking, drinking, maybe flirting, too.
 

Even if Rafa did mean something by that, I came to Madrid to work my ass off, pull up my GPA, and enjoy some art. I didn’t cross an ocean to start a relationship—a hookup, a romance, whatever—that inevitably won’t last. I promised myself no more hookups, no more heartbreak.

Still.

I find myself grinning back up at Rafa, wondering what his wine-stained lips would taste like.

Wondering if his kindness is a ploy to get in my pants, or if it’s genuine. It makes no sense, I know; guys this good-looking, guys that smell this wonderful, don’t need to be nice to awkward American girls like me to get some.

But there’s something about Rafa—something about his eyes, his calm, easy demeanor, that makes me think he’s different.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

And I mean it. I do.

***

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Acknowledgments

A big shout out to my biggest fan—Benji, I love you to the moon and back. Can’t wait to see where our travels will take is in 2016!

I’d also like to thank my editor and writing doula, Kristin Anders. You are really, really amazing at your job. Thank you for all your work—you understood Maddie and Javier long before I did.

Thanks, too, to the extraordinary Formatting Fairies. You gals are such a pleasure to work with. I’d also like to thank Elizabeth Bank of Selestiele Designs for a SUPER sexy new cover. Thanks for making my books shine!

Thanks to Meg Tinkham for helping me put together my new website. I appreciate your patience with all my idiot questions!

About the Author

JESSICA PETERSON
began reading romance to escape the decidedly unromantic awkwardness of her teenage years. Having found solace in the likes of Mr. Darcy, Jamie Fraser (OMG love the gingers!), and Edward Cullen, it wasn’t long before she began creating tall, dark and handsome heroes of her own. She lives in Charlotte, North Carolina with her husband, Mr. Peterson, and her smelly Goldendoodle Martha Bean.

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