Page 22 of Better Late Than Never

He shrugged and plucked the earplugs off my palm. “Eh, I won’t argue with not damaging my hearing.”

“Hasn’t the military done that enough?”

“What?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

God, I loved the way this man laughed. His smile made me dizzy, and I loved it, even though it frustrated the hell out of me because I wanted to?—

Focus, Alex. Focus.

We didn’t have to wait long to get in the front door. It was only 2300, so the Spanish club scene hadn’t begun to kick up yet. Any club in town would be almost deserted at this hour; normally, I wouldn’t bother showing up until midnight, since that was when the locals usually materialized. This time of night, it was just a smattering of expats and tourists, the bartenders, and the deejay.

I’d done that on purpose tonight. This was Connor’s first foray into this scene, and I didn’t want to overwhelm him.

That wasn’t true. I’d have sawed off a limb for the chance to overwhelm him. Strip off that carefully curated outfit, mess up that perfectly styled hair, and?—

No, Alex. No. Don’t even fantasize about it.

What Ididn’twant to do was turn him loose in a night club that was in full swing. Too much noise. Too many people. Too easy to get disoriented.

Right now, Castillo de Danza was about as lively as a strip club on a Tuesday afternoon. The music was loud and there were people on the dancefloor, but it wasn’t utter chaos and sensory overload. Yet.

I watched Connor surveying the scene, his nerves on full display. Then I shouted over the music, “Why don’t we get something to drink?”

He shook himself and turned to me. “Uh. Okay. Yeah. A drink sounds good.” At the bar, he looked over the various beers on tap and seemed to get even more lost. I had no idea if he’d tried any Spanish beers yet, but he eyed the brands like none of them were familiar. Finally he leaned toward me. “What do you suggest?”

The words“depends on what you like”almost flew off my tongue, but I hesitated. Even a simple decision like that could pile on to that fish-out-of-water feeling that was probably setting in hard.

I gestured at the options. “Cruzcampo is good. It’s kind of on the fruity side if you’re into that.”

“Sounds good to me.”

I turned to the bartender and ordered us a pair.

Beside me, Connor chuckled. “You know, it’s funny—everyone who found out I was going to Spain said I’d only need to know three Spanish phrases.”

I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “¿Donde esta el baños? Dos cervezas, por favor. Dosmáscervezas, por favor.”

He laughed, oblivious to what that did to my head and my balance. “Yes, those. You heard them too?”

“Everyone does. Trust me. And then you get here and find out that not only are those grammatically incorrect, but people in Spain don’t call the restrooms ‘baños.’ And the bartender will want to know whatbrandof cerveza.” I rolled my eyes again.

Right then, the bartender handed over our dos cervezas, and I paid him.

As we stepped away to find a table, Connor said, “I could’ve paid. You don’t have to pay my way.”

I waved dismissively. “You can buy the next round.”

“Eh, fair enough.”

This early in the evening, there were plenty of unoccupied tables, and we found one with a good view of the sparsely crowded dancefloor. Connor rested his forearm on the table and sipped his beer. “Oh, you’re right—thisisgood.”

“Isn’t it?” I sipped my own, grateful for the cold and the bittersweet flavor. “It’s not my favorite of the Spanish brands, but I like it a lot.”

“Yeah?” He met my gaze, unaware of the disco lights sparkling in his dark eyes. “What do you like?”

What… What do I like? What are we—oh. Right. Spanish beers.

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