“I do.”

“So how am I odd?”

“‘Literally spoken prehistory . . .’” I widen my eyes at him. “What does that even mean?”

He exhales heavily with a subtle shake of his head. “If you don’t know, then I’m not telling you.”

I go back to my dumbass scenery watching. “Can we have french fries for dinner?”

He glances over at me. “And I’m the odd one?”

“I’ve got a hankering.” I picture my delicious meal tonight. “With a hamburger.”

“Yes! Hamburgers,” Basil calls from the seat behind. “I’m down.”

“Did you know that it drops to five degrees Celsius in winter in San Sebastián?” Christopher replies.

More facts.

I cross my arms and snuggle down on his shoulder for a sleep. “I do now.”

There’s a reason people talk about San Sebastián in Spain.

It’s vibrant, colorful, and one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to.

Set on the coast, it has it all. Today we browsed the township, visited the Sacred Heart giant statue of Jesus on Monte Urgull. We went swimming at the beach this afternoon, and now it’s early evening. We are looking for somewhere to have dinner.

“Here?” Kimberly asks. We all peer into the packed pub.

“Looks popular.” Bodie shrugs. “This will do.” They all walk in, and I notice Christopher’s shoulders slump.

“Can we get a table for six, please?” Kimberly asks.

“Sure.” The waitress smiles. “This way.” We follow her through the crowded restaurant and take a seat in the courtyard.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper to Christopher as we walk along behind her.

“Nothing.” He puts his arm around my waist and follows me through.

“You look like something is wrong.”

“I’m just so sick of shit food,” he whispers as we get to the table.

“Oh.” I frown. I thought we’d been eating amazingly for our budget.

He pulls out my chair, and I sit down. We order drinks and look through the menu.

“What are you having?” I ask everyone.

They all discuss the choices and chat away, and I glance over to see Christopher staring at the menu, deflated.

“You don’t like any of this?” I ask.

He forces a smile. “It’s good. Don’t worry.” He taps me on the thigh with his big hand as if to reassure me.

He always goes with the flow. He’s never once picked where we go. “What would you eat if you could eat anything in the world?” I ask him softly so that the others can’t hear.

His eyes stay fixed on the menu. “I would have bluefin tuna sashimi with daikon and ginger for entrée. Beluga caviar with lobster and sage butter sauce.”

I frown.

“Followed by a glass of Macallan scotch and White Truffle Bliss for dessert.”

“Oh . . .” I stare at the menu. I’ve never had any of those meals. “That’s weird food.”

He gives me a sad smile. “Is it?”

“Uh-huh . . .” I keep looking through the menu. “Maybe you should put anchovies on the pizza if you want to feel exotic?”

He gives me a broad, beautiful smile and picks up my hand as it sits on the table and squeezes it in his. “Maybe.” He watches me for a moment. “What kind of food do you eat at home?”

I shrug. “I never really eat out.”

“Why not?”

“I live alone.” I shrug again. “I don’t know. I like cooking, I guess.”

“What kind of things do you cook?” he asks.

“Lots of things.” I smile over at him as he listens intently. “I’m pretty good, actually. When we get home, you’ll have to come and visit me one day, and I’ll cook for you.”

His eyes hold mine. “I’d like that.”

“What will it be, sir?” the waitress asks him.

“I’ll have the sierra pizza with anchovies,” he replies. He glances over and gives me a sexy wink.

“Mr. Exotic,” I mouth.

He chuckles as he speaks to the waitress. “What scotch do you have?” he asks her.

“House scotch.”

He winces. “Okay, I’ll have a glass of red wine.”

I laugh out loud as I am spun around. It’s our last night in San Sebastián, and we are celebrating in style.

We have sunned, swum, and laughed our way through the week. Sightseeing through the day and dancing the night away until we drop into an unconscious sleep in the early hours of the morning. If this is what the next twelve months look like, then sign me up. I’ve never had so much fun.

The new friends I’ve met are hilarious, and weirdly, it feels like a little family already. We all do our own thing but always look out for each other and end up safely back in the same room at the end of each night.

Rod Stewart’s song “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy” blares through the speakers, and Christopher spins me out and then pulls my body back to his as we dance. My stomach hurts from laughing.

This man . . . this beautiful man.

He’s funny and smart and weirdly obsessed with factual literature. We’ve spent the whole week together . . . it’s been perfect.

If the truth be told, I’m quite enamored of him. Not that I will ever admit it.

He isn’t the kind of man I could let myself fall for. I already know how it would end.

I would lose my friend, one that I’ve become very attached to.

I see the women he looks at and talks to. They’re the complete opposite of me. He likes thin; I’m curvy. He likes supermodel high-maintenance types. I’m simple. He likes flirty and fun, and I’m quiet and shy. He likes promiscuous, and I haven’t had sex in a really long time.

Too long.

Wherever he is, he’s the center of attention. Everyone wants to be with him, and yet here’s me, wanting to blend in with the walls.

Chalk and cheese.

We couldn’t be more different.

The reality of it sucks, because we have this weird unstated connection. We’re touchy with each other and always end up at the back of the pack, talking between the two of us.

He cuddles my back in bed, and I rely on him more than I should.

But I know that would all come crashing to an end if something ever happened between us. I would instantly become one of the groupies he fucks and not his treasured friend.

I couldn’t hold a man like Christopher Miles—not for long, anyway.

And while I silently dream of what it would be like to be with someone like him . . . I know I can’t even entertain the idea.

I’m still not over my last heartbreak, and it’s been two years. If it happens again, I know I’ll be a spinster for life. I came on this trip to get over heartbreak, not start a new one. But Christopher is my friend. I know I can trust him to be just that.

He spins me again, and I laugh out loud.

“Let’s go swimming.” He smiles.

“Now?” I gasp. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What about sharks?”

“Sharks are the least of your worries,” he replies as he pulls me out of the bar by the hand.

Five minutes later we are on the beach, and he takes his shirt off over his head and strips down to his boxers.

Oh crap . . .

He wades out into the darkened water and turns back toward me. “Come on, Grumps.” He splashes the water up at me. “The water’s beautiful.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

“So?”

I look up and down the beach. There are people everywhere.

“Stop being so uptight.”

He’s right. I am too uptight, and I want to change that about myself. I don’t like being like this.

Oh god . . .

I wade into the water, desperately wanting to go in.

“Come on,” he calls. “I want you to come swimming with me, that’s all.”

That’s all.