Page 119 of Dream Chaser

Conversations over a glass of wine. Cooking together. Nights in each other’s arms. Someone to share my success with. Someone to take care of and to come home to.

Not just someone—the woman whose name I spilled to my parents, willingly ensuring interrogation for the rest of my stay in Spain.

***

The day had been a mix of food, conversation, and wine—a glass with my father on a stone bench beneath an olive tree in the garden. Then one more as he showed me the freshly bottled oil from this year’s harvest.

And another one later, as I sat at the table on the terrace alone, watching the sun dip into crimson clouds.

I escaped here using work as an excuse. Work could wait, but I opened my laptop, anyway, and went straight to my email.

A sigh escaped me—nothing from Nova, but I explicitly forbade my employees from working during Christmas break. I’d handle anything urgent, but they deserved a screen-free vacation.

Alcohol still flowed through my bloodstream as I reread our email thread. Mostly about work, but a few personal emails slipped in. Asking her if her back was better after physical therapy with Pablo and if her iron deficiency improved. Her emailing me in the middle of a meeting with a sponsor when she saw me wince and asked if I had a headache and needed anything.

Everything stopped after Pradollano, as if neither of us knew how to navigate the new closeness while acting as though nothing had changed.

I hated it.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I rubbed my cold palms together, then began typing another message in our thread I wouldn’t send.

Telling her about Ignacio and working at his agency. Confessing what he did and how it wrecked me when I realized he was far from the decent human being I thought he was. Every thought I’d never voiced, every doubt I had, every reason I couldn’t be with her stuffed in a wall of text I’d never let her read.

Writing everything without fear of judgment felt freeing.

“Ale!”

My brother’s voice reached me, followed by a squeal belonging to Clara, my two-year-old niece and the culprit of Fernando’s few gray hairs.

He stepped onto the terrace with her in his arms. She wriggled free, and he set her on the floor, laughing.

“She wants her uncle.” He glanced at my laptop. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were working.”

“No pasa nada,” I said, motioning for Clara to come closer. It’s okay. She barreled straight into my arms, a half-eaten cookie in hand. I hoisted her up until she planted her feet on my lap.

Once she was level with me, she pressed the cookie to my lips. “Come.”

Eat. I’d never understood toddlers’ obsession with feeding people their food, but I didn’t want to upset her, so I chewed the cookie, then tickled her with my stubble, making her giggle.

“Te quedan bien los niños,” Fernando said. Kids suit you. “Dad told me about your girlfriend. I’m a bit offended you kept quiet.”

Here we fucking go. Los Guerrero loved gossip as much as barbecue.

“Not much to tell yet,” I said. “It’s recent.”

Clara gripped my nose, bursting into giggles.

Fernando sighed. “She never stops.”

No lies there. One minute, she was standing, and then…

A tiny fist landed on the keyboard. My blood froze. “Fuck!”

“Palabrotas,” Fernando said as I stared at Clara’s hand. Language.

Fuck no. No, no, no.

“Mierda,” I mumbled. Shit. “Fer, take her.”