"Right," she said, straightening up and handing him a soggy mass of napkins. "Perdona si te llamo 'Cayetano,' but I feel like you probably have a sailboat named after your grandmother and a very strong opinion on polo shirts."
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. Perdona Si Te Llamo Cayetano Raquel Tirado Fe...
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. "Right," she said, straightening up and handing him
Raquel paused her scrubbing. The accent, the Barbour jacket draped over his arm, the leather weekend bag—he was a walking stereotype. The orange glow of the Madrid sunset bounced