As they walked toward the metro, the girl from the outskirts and the boy from the golden mile, the labels started to feel a little less permanent. Maybe he was a Cayetano, and maybe she was exactly who she thought she was, but under the Madrid sky, they were just two people walking toward a better cup of coffee.

The orange glow of the Madrid sunset bounced off the glass buildings of Paseo de la Castellana, but for Raquel, the view was mostly blocked by the back of a very expensive, very well-tailored navy blazer.

She had bumped into him—literally—outside a coffee shop in Salamanca. Her iced latte had done a graceful, tragic arc onto his suede loafers.

He let out a startled, genuine laugh. "It’s Borja, actually. And the boat is named after my mother. My grandmother’s name was much too long to fit on the hull."

Raquel rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the small smile tugging at her mouth. "Of course it is."