“You are prettier than your sisters. You’re way prettier than your sisters.”

“That is…the most romantic thing that you’ve ever said to me.”

He laughs again. “It’s true.”

An unseen bird warbles, and another unseen bird answers its call. “You know,” I say, “I can’t remember the last time I was in a place where I couldn’t hear any traffic.”

“Ah, you’re a nature girl at heart. You’ve just never been given the opportunity.”

“And you’re a nature boy?”

“Definitely. See, if you come with me to New England, we can learn how to do all of those outdoorsy things you read about in your books. Exploring, camping, rock-climbing, rafting, stargazing, building fires—”

“Building fires?” I smile.

“That’s right. Fires. Plural.”

The sun dips below the treeline, and suddenly, Josh is backlit by a stunning golden light. He looks perfect even when he’s damp and sweaty and dirty. I wiggle upward until I reach his lips. We kiss, heavily, until I can’t handle it any more.

“Let’s go,” I say. It comes out ragged.

Josh freezes.

And then he’s lunging for his hoodie and backpack, tripping over himself to get moving. I grab my things, and he takes my hand as we sprint onto the narrow path. We’re laughing, completely blissed out. We run down, down, down, and the further we go, the more crowded the park gets. We race through an area that looks like a cave – perfect for making out, complete with a classical Spanish guitarist – but making out is no longer enough. We pass Gaudí sculptures, Gaudí buildings, Gaudí’s famous lizard fountain, but they barely earn a glance as we whiz by. We only have eyes for each other.

We grab the first cab outside of the park. We’re breathless. Josh hands the driver our hotel’s address, and our tongues and limbs and hands are touching, searching, groping as the streets of Barcelona whiz past our windows. We pay our distressed cabbie way too much, mainly out of guilt, and tumble back out.

Josh kisses my neck as we check in. Our surroundings are a blur. The clerk, the stairs, the hallway. We slam our room door shut and toss our backpacks to the floor. We have the entire night, but we can’t wait another minute.

We kiss fiercely. Urgently. I throw off my coat as Josh scrambles out of his hoodie. I remove his T-shirt as we collapse onto the bed. His chest drums against mine. I roll over, climb on top of him, and find that he’s as ready as I am. He lifts my dress up and around my h*ps and then over my head. I pull back, breathless. “Do you have?”

“Backpack.”

I bend over backwards, stretching for his bag on the floor. I reach it and yank it closer. I find them in the front pouch. I grab one, and he helps me sit back up. He stares openly at my matching pale pink underwear. Josh has seen all of me, but never all at once.

I unhook my bra. He takes it off.

He kisses my br**sts, my stomach, the line above my underwear. And then the line below it as my last remaining clothing slides from my hips. I unbuckle his belt, unzip his jeans, and tug them down at the same time as his boxers. His breathing is shallow. Rapid. I lower myself onto him. We gasp. Our arms wrap around each other, and we move together, watching each other, checking in with each other with our eyes. Is this okay? What about this? This?

It builds. Faster.

I want him closer. I want him deeper. I want him, want him, want him. His eyes close and so do mine, and we finish as we started. Together.

Chapter eighteen

Josh’s stomach rumbles against my ear. The room is black. I unfurl from his body and lean towards the hotel’s digital clock. It’s nearly two in the morning. Josh feels me stir. “Tapas,” he mumbles. “We haven’t had tapas.”

“I think we missed dinner.”

“’s okay.” He hugs me against his chest. “Too tired to get up anyway.”

“We’ll just have to come back.”

“Tapas and cerveza. And then we’ll make love on the altar of the Sagrada Família.”

I pull away, he tugs me close, I pull away. “Be right back,” I say. “Bathroom.”

After I pee, I return for my toothbrush and toothpaste. He follows me in, and we brush our teeth. We can’t stop smiling at each other. I can’t believe that adults get to do this every day. And I don’t even mean sex, though it’s wonderful, but things like this. Brushing our teeth at the same sink. Do adults realize how lucky they are? Or do they forget that these small moments are actually small miracles? I don’t want to ever forget.

We climb back in bed and make sleepy, happy, minty-fresh love. He’s careful to make sure that I’m taken care of first before he collapses against me. Moonlight shines in through the windows, and I trace the outline of his tattoo with an index finger.

“You’ve never told me about this,” I say.

“You’ve never asked.”

“I love it.”

I didn’t mean for that to slip out in such a gushy way. Josh laughs, but it’s the tired laughter of relief. “Thank goodness.”

“Tell me the story.”

He shifts into a more comfortable position while carefully keeping me nestled against his body. “When I was sixteen, St. Clair convinced an artist in Pigalle that I was eighteen. Except he didn’t really convince him. He was just so pushy and persuasive that the guy gave up. It was definitely illegal.” I laugh as he continues. “St. Clair can persuade anyone to do anything. He’s, like, drowning in charisma. It’s so unfair to the rest of us.”

“Eh,” I say. “He’s okay.”

Josh pauses. And then I hear a smile in his voice. “This must be how you felt when I told you that you’re hotter than your sisters.”

I laugh louder this time. “I suppose it is.”

“Anyway, it was just the two of us, and I was the only person who got one. It was a few days after my birthday—”

“Like now!”

“Like now. I’d decided on my birthday that I’d get a tattoo, so I designed this one for the incredibly inspired reason that…it seemed cool at the time.”

“It is cool.”

“I consider myself unbelievably lucky that I still like it.”

“Oh, come on. You have taste. You’d never put something lame on your body.” I pause, a new thought occurring to me. “Do you want any more tattoos?”