Page 40 of The Fake Dating Plan

“Fine.” I gulped down the rest of my cocktail. “What else do I have in store for me, Don Juan.”

He balked. “You wound me.”

“Means nothing. He’s the only Spanish person I could think of.”

“Well,” he got up and went over to my side and offered his hand, “you clearly need a crash course in all things Spain.”

A rush of electricity went down my spine when I took his hand. I ignored it and let him lead me. We left the restaurant, after Diego’s protests, and went into the street. “I’ve never been here before.” It was the first thing I could think of saying to get my mind off the place where both our hands touched.

“Ever?”

“No.”

“Let me be your Mallorca tour guide.”

The first place he took me to was an old city with old red brick walls and ancient Spanish-style architecture. He took me around the old ruins telling me about when it was built, the different nations that tried to destroy it, and when it finally got conquered. We entered the church at the center arm in arm. There were few other tourists besides us at this time and I was happy to take in the splendor of such a place without being jostled by people. “It’s beautiful, I said with my eyes on the painted ceiling of the cathedral.” I looked down at him, not sure he heard me, and caught him staring at me. I blushed. I couldn’t help it. He smiled and told me another fascinating fact about the artist who painted the mural.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think you moonlit as a tour guide.”

“I'm sorry I can’t help it. I have a bit of an obsession with Spanish history.”

He was right. How could I forget the number of Spanish history books I had seen in his dorm room the first time he brought me to it. I had asked him if he majored in history as I picked one thick volume from his bed. He merely laughed and said, “If I had a choice I would, but you can’t always do what you want. At least in this, I’m like all the business majors in my class.”

I let that sliver of memory disappear and wondered if he ever wanted a different path than the one he chose. “Is that what you wanted to do?”

He frowned.

“Be a history professor or something of the sort?” He shook his head. “I’m more of a hobbyist, an amateur if you will, but I do like my job. If I had become what my father wanted me to be, however…”

“Which is?” Before he could answer, I answered for him. “Take over for him?”

“Tech was never my thing. That’s Santiago’s area. While I was cramming for the SATs he was busy hacking into the FBI. It scares me sometimes that he’s now the head of one of the most influential tech companies lauded for its privacy policies.”

“You’re happy then? Being the C.O.O. of KMVH.”

“Where’s this concern coming from?”

I stepped forward in front of him and turned my gaze to the stained-glass windows. “Your passion for all things historical is quite a thing to behold. You should see the way your eyes light up.

He closed the distance between us and took my hand in his. “Trust me, if I wasn’t happy with my choice of profession, I would take steps to remedy it. I have many passions,” his eyes glittered and they scanned me from top to bottom as if he had an elicit act on his mind and then at the last second, seemed to drop it, “one of which I would like you to see.”

“Where are you taking me now,” I asked as he led me out of the church. “Can you trust me for a second?”

I did and half an hour and a rental car later we drove to a grand villa surrounded by a thriving, but withering vineyard. “It’s my mother’s villa,” he said as we both made our way to the door. An old stern man with olive skin was already standing by, “And this is Martinez, the keeper of these old stones.” Ax introduced us and we shook hands. Martinez said something in Spanish to Ax and left us as he and I went inside. “If it weren’t for him this place would be,” Ax said, “a pile of bricks.” The inside was more modern than the classic style betrayed by its outward appearance. It was tastefully decorated and altogether the house had the modern and the classic blending well together.

“I see now why you like to spend your time here,” I said, “it’s not the people it’s this place. Is this the passion you were talking about?”

“Not at all. It is a nice house, but I don’t care about it as much as,” it was then that I noticed we were walking past the room and to the opposite side where he opened two wide French doors, “this.”

I stepped onto the balcony and took in the gorgeous view of the vineyard. It was breathtaking. “This is yours?”

“My mother’s, but I help her manage it.”

I turned to him. His eyes glittered with excitement. Somehow, in this environment, his Spanish roots were more apparent. He was in his element. It was disarming. Suddenly, he grabbed my hand and said, “I wanna show you something.”

“Sure.” His enthusiasm was infectious. He led me down the staircase. At the bottom was a big oak door, which he pushed forward. We entered the dimly lit basement, which, after my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized that it was a wine cellar. Barrels lined the arched walls on one side and the other were polygon-shaped shelves filled with wine bottles. He went to the shelves and selected a wine. Towards the end, where he was leading me, was a sort of wine bar with a wooden table made from barrels in the middle. “Please make yourself comfortable,” he said, pointing to a barrel-shaped chair. He took out two wine glasses from the cabinet, poured wine into them, and handed me one.

“Thank you.” I took a sip of the wine. It was a potent and fruity Chianti.

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