The best thing about Barcelona—aside from the Sagrada Familia and the city’s strong water polo tradition—is the Catalan capital is on the sea.

Not near it, like Athens, but smack on it, like San Francisco, which I have yet to visit, with ports and marinas encroaching on its historic heart.

Since both Isabelle and I are skipping the Gaudí tour for the sake of a working dinner, I figured we could eat on the terrace of a waterfront restaurant, and then stroll back along the city’s lovely beaches.

On our way out of the hotel, I stop by the front desk and ask the concierge to call a cab and book a table for two at Suquet. A ten-minute ride later, we’re at the restaurant, ordering our stew.

As the server hurries away, I watch Isabelle out of the corner of my eye. She opens her purse and pulls out her “idea folder.” Except I’m not in the mood for more PR talk. Or for any work-related talk, for that matter. There’s a question that’s been bugging me since our first meeting two months ago, and now seems like a good time to ask it.

“You’re a very attractive woman, Isabelle,” I say, trying to keep my smile polite and friendly. “Please forgive me, but I must ask. Did we… were we more than friends?”

She freezes for a split second with her folder midair. Then she slowly sets it on the table and trains her gaze on it. “You didn’t find me attractive in the past.”

Nice try, sweetheart, but you’ll need a more plausible diversion next time.

I arch an eyebrow. “You’re skirting my question.”

“I mean it,” she says. “It wasn’t like that between us. We were pals, nothing more.”

“In three years, I never hit on you?”

She shakes her head. “Ask Zach or Denis. Ask your parents.”

“I have.”

“And?”

“They all say the same thing. You were ‘like a little sister’ to me.”

“See?”

“I just…” I exhale a frustrated breath. “I just find it hard to believe.”

“What are you saying, Lucas?”

“I guess I’m saying that I’m drawn to you in a way I haven’t been drawn to a woman since I woke up six years ago.”

She fidgets with the rubber bands on her folder and refuses to look at me.

I run my hand through my hair. “You have nothing to worry about, Isabelle. I won’t act on my… urges.”

“Good,” she mumbles.

Our food arrives, and for a good five minutes, we eat in silence.

“You were involved with a woman,” Isabelle says suddenly. “Angela. You called her Angie. Hasn’t she…? Haven’t you seen her since waking up?”

I shake my head.

“How come?” she asks.

“She was modeling in New York when I woke up.”

“Didn’t she travel to France occasionally? Not even for Christmas?”

“Apparently not.” I shrug. “Or if she did, I didn’t get a heads-up.”

She touches my hand. “I’m so sorry, Lucas.”

“Please, there’s no need.” I stare at her hand and then into her eyes.

She pulls her hand back and down to her lap.

“When I recovered enough to reach out,” I say, “I called her. That was four years ago.”

“What did she say?”

“Not much. Our conversation barely lasted five minutes. We exchanged some platitudes, she said she was sorry she couldn’t come see me because of her insane schedule, and then she said she had to run.”

Isabelle clenches her jaw, looking angrier than I’ve ever seen her.

The server returns with the menu and asks if we’d like a dessert. Neither of us fancy any, as it happens, so I pay the check and we leave.

“The fish stew was amazing,” Isabelle says, turning toward the sea.

I watch the soft summer breeze play with her shoulder-length hair, and I know I’m not prepared to go back to the hotel just yet. Whether it’s the feeling something’s been left unsaid or just a selfish desire to spend more time with her one-on-one, it’s stronger than the rational voice telling me to run from temptation.

Taking a breath, I say as matter-of-factly as I can. “Fancy a walk on the beach before we head back?”

She nods.

The beach is still full of people, but not the noisy teenage crowd which gathers closer to Port Vell. This end is much more peaceful and less crowded. The families with kids who frequent it in daytime have left by now, and the remaining beachgoers stroll or sit around in small groups, enjoying hushed conversations or just gazing at the sea.

“I love this beach,” Isabelle says as we amble past one such gracious group. “So quiet. What a change from Paris Plage!”

“Which isn’t even a real beach,” I say. “You can’t smell the sea because there is none.”

She turns to me, smiling. “Nor can you go in ankle-deep and let the waves lick your feet.”

“Would you like to do that?”

“Do you mind?” She points at the sneakers I’m holding. “We’re barefoot already.”

I head toward the water.

She catches up.

As we stand next to each other, warm waves caressing our feet, the temptation to take her hand in mine grows stronger by the minute. When my fingers start to twitch, I curl them into a ball and take a few steps back.

She turns around, a question in her eyes.

“I’m going to sit here and let my feet dry.” I point to a spot a few meters from the edge of the water. “Take your time.”

Five minutes later, she plonks herself next to me. “That was nice.”

She’s sitting too close to me—way too close.

I can smell her delicate perfume. I can see every delicious curve and muscle of her athletic, lithe body. Her flawless skin, her hair, her elegant neck, breasts…

Suddenly, I remember a dream from last night. I was kissing Isabelle and pushing into her, hard and deep. It felt so incredibly good… And so real.

Was it a dream or a memory?

While I ponder the question and valiantly ignore my arousal, Isabelle plants her palms into the sand behind her back and leans into her stretched arms. Dropping her head back, eyes shut, she stretches out her legs, and wiggles her toes.

I don’t even try to pretend I’m not leering.

My body is so tense, I feel like it’s going to snap any moment now.

Being alone with her here, away from our usual professional setting, was a big mistake.

What was I thinking?

Clearly, I was thinking I could handle my lust.

I still think I can, even if I begin to suspect she’s lying about us, and the images in my head aren’t fantasies or figments of my imagination, but true memories.

No matter what we used to be to each other, right now she works for me. I guess it’s OK for us to be friends—I’m friends with Leanne, Zach and Denis, after all—but we can’t be lovers.

Even if I crave it.

Even if it turns out she wants it, too.

After all, I fired Martin for hitting on a female player. True, she was only a teenager, but still. What message would it send to my team if I become too chummy with Isabelle?

Move away, Lucas.

But my body refuses to budge.

Isabelle opens her eyes and turns her lovely face to me.

Touch me, I beg her in my head.

Touch my foot, my knee, my hand—anything. Tell me you want me like I want you.

She moves her leg just a tiny little bit, and her thigh touches mine. I shift, too, pressing my leg against hers. The next moment, my hand covers hers. We both turn to gaze at the sea, fooling ourselves that no lines have been crossed yet.

Isabelle’s breathing comes fast and shallow.

Mine quickens, too.

I turn back to her.

She looks at me. “Don’t kiss me.”

“Izz—”

“It’s not that I don’t want to…” She hesitates. “It’s the garlic.”

I pull back and stare at her.

“The fish stew we ate,” she says, smiling her adorable smile. “It had tons of garlic in it.”

I do my best to keep a straight face. “Yes, it did. That’s why it was so good.”

She widens her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

I mimic her expression. “May I point out we both ate it?”

“So what? It doesn’t cancel it out.”

“No, but it puts us in the same aromatic class.” I beam despite my best efforts. “It would’ve been worse if you smelled of garlic and I of vanilla.”

I cup her face.

A smile flashes across her face before she bunches her brows again. “It isn’t just the garlic.”

I wait.

“It’s…” She huffs, frustrated. “I don’t want to go there, Lucas.”

Go where, exactly? Explaining the non-garlic-related reasons why she won’t let me kiss her? The kissing itself? What that might entail?

The latter, most likely.

She’s right. If I could think clearly right now, I wouldn’t want to go there myself.

She pulls her hand from under mine and stands up.

I stand, too.

We return to the hotel in silence with Isabelle keeping her arms crossed over her chest and a distance between us big enough to fit another person. A corpulent other person.

“Good night,” she mumbles the moment we enter the hotel, and ducks behind the door that leads to the staircase, forgoing the comforts of the elevator.

And the dangers of riding it with me.