Page 72 of The Fighter

“I don’t snore,” he replies with a grin, unzipping his garment bag and hanging up his suit jacket. “You, on the other hand…” His voice trails off suggestively.

When I first saw the garment bag, I was tempted to make a joke about how he couldn’t go a weekend without wearing a suit. Then I remembered the reason we’re in Valencia. My father has indicated that he wants to take me out to a fancy restaurant for dinner, and though he doesn’t know it yet, I’m not going anywhere without Tomas. He’s going to need the suit.

“I do not snore,” I say indignantly.

He winks at me. “Don’t worry, dolcezza. It’s adorable, not annoying.”

I frown at him. “You’re in a very good mood. What’s going to happen when your family finds out we’re not really engaged? Should we tell them the truth?”

“No,” he says immediately. “My mother is the worst actor in the world. If she knew the truth, she’d never be able to pretend. It’s not a big deal. Once we’re back in Venice, I’ll tell them about the ruse.”

“They seem really excited about your engagement.” When she finds out it’s not real, Carina is going to be crushed. And I can’t bear to be the one who puts that look of disappointment in her eyes. “I feel like I’m abusing your mother’s kindness.”

“She won’t hold it against you, dolcezza.”

Tomas’s parents live near the beach in a neighborhood called El Cabanyal. It’s warmer than Venice, but the ocean breeze makes the heat manageable. Carlota announces that we’re going to eat outside. “Can I help?” I ask when I head back downstairs.

“No, no, just enjoy the lovely weather. Ramon and I can handle it.”

“Are you sure?”

Tomas comes up behind me. “Carlota is the head chef at one of the best restaurants in the city,” he says, his voice proud. “According to her sous-chef, she’s very temperamental. There’s lots of screaming and throwing things. It’s best to stay out of it. You wouldn’t want to be hit by a flying knife.”

Her eyes narrow. “My sous-chef said that, did he? Just wait until I find him.”

“Who’s her sous-chef?” I ask in a low voice.

Tomas gives me a wicked smile. “Ramon. This ought to be fun.”

Lunch is amazing. Carlota and Ramon bring out dish after delicious dish. Patatas bravas, olives stuffed with anchovies—Tomas tells me they’re called gildas—Brie baked with caramelized onions with a dollop of raspberry sauce on top, paella, croquettes, a cuttlefish stew, warm bread, olive oil, and so much more. I eat everything. By the time I’m done, I’m so stuffed that it hurts to breathe, and I regret nothing. I lean back in my chair and let the conversation flow around me.

Carlota watches me approvingly. “You should come to my restaurant for esmorzaret tomorrow,” she says. “It’s in the central market. Have you been to Valencia before?”

“No, it’s my first time.” And probably my last. Once Tomas’s family finds out about my deception, they’re not going to want to see me again. “What’s esmorzaret?”

“Valencian brunch,” Tomas says from across the table. “Usually, a sandwich—a bocadillo—followed by cremaet, which is basically coffee with rum. It’s a Valencian specialty.”

“Like café bombon?”

Tomas’s father leans forward with interest. “You’ve had café bombon?”

“She made it for me,” Tomas replies. “She thinks it’s disgustingly sweet.” He gives me an amused smile. “She’ll come around.”

Lunch lasts three hours. Adan, the baby, is a little restless by the time we near the end, so his father takes him to the beach. Tomas’s mother stirs reluctantly at the end of the meal. “I need to stop by the hospital,” she says. “I told them I wouldn’t be coming in today, but there are a couple of patients I want to check in on. Tomas, will you give me a ride, mijo?”

Tomas gives me an inquiring look. “Will you be okay by yourself, dolcezza?”

I blush at the nickname. He’s called me that dozens of times, but this is in front of his family. “Of course.”

“You should take a siesta,” Carina says with a smile. “It’s my favorite Spanish tradition. Dinner here is a little later than in Italy. We don’t usually eat until ten.” She turns to her daughter. “Carlota, don’t clear up, mija. I’ll do it after I get back.”

“No, you won’t,” Jose Antonio says firmly, demonstrating where Tomas gets his stubbornness from. “I’ll do it.”

“No, Papá, your hip is bothering you,” Carlota protests. “It’s no big deal. I’ll take care of it.”

I jump to my feet. “Please let me do it. It’s the least I can do to thank you for this delicious meal.”

“No, Alina, you’re our guest?—”

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