He also refused to turn on the GPS that had been provided for us, determined to get us there the old-fashioned way.
Which is why we were now lost. Taking a train would have been too easy. Simon needed a car to get around for his photos, which was ultimately why we were here. After flying through the night, we were both exhausted, but the best way to fight jet lag, allegedly, was to get on local time as quickly as possible. We had both agreed not to nap until we could go to sleep that night.
Now we argued about where we took the wrong turn. I’d been devouring some churros from a roadside stand when the wrong turn supposedly took place, and so we played “Place the Blame.”
“All I’m saying is that if someone hadn’t been stuffing her face and was watching for the turn, we wouldn’t be—”
“Stuffing my face? Seriously? You were stealing my churros. I told you to get your own when we stopped!”
“Well, I wasn’t hungry at first, but then you were smacking your lips and licking that chocolate, and well …I got distracted.” He looked up from the map, which he’d spread out on the hood of the car, and grinned, breaking the tension.
“Distracted?” I grinned back, leaning a little closer. As he looked at the map, I looked at him. How could someone who’d been on a plane for the last hundred years look as good as he did? But there he was, faded jeans, black T-shirt, dark blue North Face jacket. Twenty-four hours of stubble begging to be licked. Who licked stubble? Me, that’s who. He braced himself on his arms as he studied the map, his lips moving silently as he tried to figure it out. I snuck underneath his arms, draping myself across the hood of the car as shamelessly as a pinup girl in a garage calendar.
“Can I make a suggestion?”
“It is a lewd suggestion?”
“Surprisingly no. Can we please turn on the GPS? I’d like to make it there before I have to leave in a few days,” I moaned. Due to my last-minute booking, I had to fly back a day before Simon. But five days in Spain…I was not complaining.
“Caroline, only pussies use GPS,” he scoffed, turning to the map again.
“Well, this pussy is dying for some dinner, and a shower, and a bed, and to get rid of this jet lag. So unless you want to see me reenact It Happened One Night, Spanish version, turn on the GPS, Simon.” I grabbed him by the North Face and pulled him down to me. “Did that sound harsh?” I whispered, giving him the tiniest of kisses on the chin.
“Yes, I’m terrified of you now.”
“Does this mean GPS?”
“It means GPS.” He sighed resignedly, leaning back and pulling me off the car with him. I gave a little cheer and started for the door.
“No, no, no, you were harsh, Nightie Girl. I’m gonna need some sugar,” he instructed, eyes twinkling.
“You need some sugar?” I asked.
He tugged on my arm, bringing me back to him. “Yes, I require it.”
“You’re twisted, Simon.” I leaned into him, slipping my arms around his neck.
“You have no idea.” He licked his lips and waggled his eyebrows like an old-timey gangster.
“Come get your sugar,” I teased as he brought his lips to mine.
I would never get tired of kissing Simon. I mean, how could you? Since the night he “truthed” me right up on to my kitchen counter, we’d slowly been exploring this new side of our relationship. Underneath all the snark and spark, there’d been some serious sexual tension building these many months. And we were letting it all out—albeit slowly. Sure, we could’ve raced right back to the bedroom that night and let the sex ring out across the city for days, but Simon and I, without saying a word, seemed to be on the same page for once, and were content to let this unfold.
He was wooing me. And I was letting him woo. I wanted the woo. I deserved the woo. I needed the wow that would surely follow the woo, but for now, the woo? It was whoa.
And speaking of woo…
My hands slipped into his hair, tugging and twisting and trying to pull his entire body inside my own. He groaned into my mouth, I felt his tongue touch mine, and I fell apart at the seams. I sighed, the tiniest whimper, and it became harder and harder to kiss him due to the giant grin overtaking my face.
He pulled back a little and laughed. “You sure look happy.”
“Keep kissing me, please,” I insisted, bringing his face back to mine.
“It’s like kissing a jack ’o’ lantern. What’s with the grin?” He smiled down at me with a grin that looked as wide as my own.
“We’re in Spain, Simon. Grinning is implied.” I sighed contentedly, messing with his hair.
“And here I thought it was all to do with my kissing,” he answered, kissing me again, gently, sweetly.
“Okay, cowboy, ready to see where the GPS takes us?” I asked, stepping away. I couldn’t keep my hands on him for too long or we’d never leave.
“Let’s see how lost we really are.” He smiled and we were on our way.
“I think this is the turn…Yep, this is it,” he said.
I bounced in my seat. Turned out we were closer than we thought, and we’d gotten a bit antsy. As we made one last turn, we looked at each other, and I squealed. We’d seen bits of the ocean for the last few miles or so—peeking out behind a stand of trees or over a cliff. Now, as we turned down a tiny cobblestone drive, the realization that Simon had rented a house not just near the beach, but on the beach washed over me, and I was silenced by the sight.
Simon pulled up to the house, the tires crunching on the rounded stones. When he turned the car off, I could hear the waves crashing against the rocky coast about a hundred feet away. We sat for a moment, just taking it all in and grinning at each other, before I scrambled out of the car.
“This is where we’re staying? This entire house—it’s yours?” I exclaimed as he grabbed our bags and came to stand next to me.
“It’s ours, yeah.” He smiled and gestured for me to walk ahead of him.
The house was charming and magnificent all at the same time: white stucco walls, clay-tile roof, clean lines, and soft archways. Orange trees lined the walkway from the drive, and bougainvil ea climbed the garden walls. The house was a classic cottage, built to weather the sea and cocoon those inside. As Simon looked under the flowerpots for the key, I inhaled the citrus scents and the distinctly salty air.
“A-ha! Got it. Ready to see the inside?” He struggled with the door for a moment before turning to face me.
I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For bringing me here.” I smiled and kissed him square on the lips.
“Mmm, more of that sugar you promised me.” He dropped the bag and pulled me close.
“Sugar this! Let’s see the house!” I cried, wiggling free and charging past him through the door. But as soon as I made it past the entryway, I stopped cold. Close on my heels, he bumped into me as I took it all in.
A sunken living room, dotted with plush white sofas and comfy-looking chairs, opened up to what I assumed was the kitchen. French doors at the back of the house opened to several large, terraced patios, which sunk down toward the rocky beach. But what had stopped me cold was the ocean. All across the back, through the giant windows, was the deep blue of the lazy Mediterranean. The coastline curved back to the town of Nerja, where the lights were just beginning to sparkle as twilight drifted over the beach, ill uminating the other white houses that clung to the cliffs.
Remembering how to move, I ran to push open the doors and let the soft air spil over me and into the house, blanketing everything in the evening’s perfume.