I open my eyes, groggy and confused, to a strikingly masculine face inches from mine.

Is this my imagination?

I blink. No, he’s really here.

A strange tremor rises up from my insides, out my spine. I’m not sure where the sensation came from. He’s thrillingly close, and it’s awesome.

As Tavo unbuckles the seatbelt, he bends over me, and I become statue-like, holding my breath, not wanting to break the spell. His minty breath entices me, and his scruff is right there, begging for me to reach out and pet his chiseled cheek. Stick my finger in that cleft in his chin. Admire him. But he’s not just a treat for the eyes, he smells sublime, like warm leather in the woods. Like rough reins that were put away cleaned and well-oiled after use.

I’m in that unsure state between awake and dreaming, where nothing makes sense. I know how to buckle and unbuckle my own seatbelt, thank you very much, but having him so close? Hot tamale. My central nervous system, wits, wires, and general operating procedures scramble like someone’s thrown water on my electrical panel. It’s kaput.

Speaking of water, drool sticks to my chin from my snooze, and I attempt to discreetly wipe it off on my shoulder. Great. Surely that is the way to influence people and win friends.

I bite at my lip and let him unbuckle me, but I’m so confused. As an example, for some reason I’m surprised to still be in a car.

Because of the dream I just had.

I thought I was … elsewhere.

“We’re here, guapa,” he answers in an undertone, using his handsome Spanish accent, and gives me a crooked smile featuring model-perfect teeth. He’s really a thing of beauty. “You fell asleep. It must have been the engine. Come out and meet my family.”

Tavo works so close on the seatbelt clasp that I watch his chest move up and out, then down and in, and it’s hypnotically sensual. I could easily stare at him breathing all day instead of any Tasty video.

He’s pretty darn tasty.

I squash down thoughts of jamming something in the seatbelt to ensure it never works so he has to do this every day.

And he keeps calling me guapa—pretty girl. I know I don’t look anywhere near as impeccable as him, since I’m disheveled after traveling for the better part of a day. Nevertheless, the compliment warms my belly.

If I’m honest, it makes me warm in other places, too.

Actually, if I’m really honest, I’m already warm there. And needy.

Because of that dream.

In it, I lay naked on a white fur blanket in the dark. A feather traced down my body, between my breasts, under my stretched-out arms, along my legs, and up to my center. The soft tip skimmed my skin, waking up all the needlepoint sensory receptors on my skin. They were alert. At attention.

Ready.

But then the dream changed. A finger grazed my skin, following along my arms, down my torso, up the inside of my thighs.

That finger started rubbing. Gently circling my O zone like I was a delicacy and the lightest brush was all that was needed to send me to the ultimate climax.

My lady bits flooded with sensation. My attention heightened, narrowed, focused in and down so that all I wanted, all I really wanted, was that release.

I was so close to coming.

But now that I’m awake? I’m still almost there. One more rub. One more thrust, and I’m done. I need to ease the throbbing between my legs. If I could just crest this tension, pass through it and let it journey through me, I’d be well on my way to the best O I’ve ever had. The dream is real, vivid, and I want it to be my reality.

Apparently not. I’m slumped in an unfamiliar car in an unfamiliar country, with saliva on my face, being attended to by an underwear model in the bright afternoon sun.

Just short of an orgasm.

Awkward.

Top priority after getting out of this car is to find a secret place to finish myself off before I explode.

But as I sit here, my face heats. I’m turned on, not to mention embarrassed. Does Tavo know I’ve just had the female equivalent of a wet dream?

Goodness.

With more crusty eye-blinks, I wake up further. The seatbelt pops undone, but Tavo doesn’t move. Those dancing eyes light on mine, and I try to figure out what he’s thinking—an impossible task.

Even if I knew what he was thinking, does he think in a different language?

Likely.

Would I understand?

Likely not.

I wonder if language gets in the way of true communication?

I’m getting really scared that he knows I’m aroused. Having him this close is throbbingly painful. His lower lip is right there. Is it bad that the first thought I have about his lip is that it’s juicy? I want to bite it. I could just kiss him.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“Hey,” he whispers back. “You’re home.”

Home. I like the idea of Spain being my new home, and my eyes open wider. I tense up my shoulders.

A shake of his head makes him straighten up, then he pulls back and rights his body outside the car—and I come to my senses.

No.

Hell to the absolute no. Oh my stars, I’m starting to swear.

My brain jangles around while he strides to the back of the car. I’ve forgotten who I am. What I am.

My promise.

My boyfriend.

I’ve forgotten everything. One plane ride, and I’m suddenly a vamp.

I’m so stupid.

Nausea bubbles up inside my belly. Heat tingles on my face. The ring on my finger now burns with shame.

This isn’t how I behave. I’ve never considered dating anyone except Shane. I’ve only ever been with him.

And I’ve promised to come back to him. Sort of. I guess I never actually said it. But I didn’t deny it.

I hunch down in my seat. Time to forget my sex dream. For once, I’m wishing for the normal kind of naked dreams—the stressed-out, nightmare, pre-finals variety. Like, where I have to give a speech to the whole auditorium, but I’ve forgotten my notes, and I’m standing there trying to remember what to say. No clothes on means no pockets for my outline.

Moving on.

I suppress a yawn, not wanting to be rude, and step out of the car, then observe my surroundings.

This place is incredible!

The golden afternoon sunshine bathes the property in appealing light. We’re parked in front of a set of ancient buildings surrounded by silvery-gray olive trees. A door opens on the closest building, a rambling two-story stone house, and a hundred million people emerge. More or less, anyway.

Will they like me?

Tavo pulls out my bags from the trunk, sets them on a low stone wall, and gives me an encouraging chin lift.

I’m gonna need divine intervention to make it through all these introductions without betraying to my new host family that my only thought is relieving the tension between my legs.

A skinnier, younger Tavo, with long hair in a ponytail arrives first, almost skidding in the dust, all cheeky enthusiasm and nonstop talking. He’s just as handsome as his older brother, but bursting at the seams with energy. He talks double-quick. I catch one word out of every five.

“¡Hola! Kim, la estadounidense. ¿Cómo estás? ¡Mucho gusto conocerte!” He leans in and kisses me on both cheeks.

Like Tavo at the airport.

Is he a lady-killer, too?

I mess up the kiss, not knowing which way to turn, because he surprises me with it. I end up almost kissing him on the mouth.

Letting out a breath, I allow my eyebrows to raise and lower and collect myself. “Uh, hola.”

Mini Tavo keeps talking at light speed. “Soy el hermano menor de Tavo y me llamo Guillermo. ¿Cómo fue el viaje?”

He’s asked me a question. I can tell it’s a question because his intonation goes up at the end, but the words all run together, and I don’t know what he asked.

I stand, grinning at him like an idiot, unable to say anything. The sharp realization comes to me: all of my previous Spanish teachers were useless morons who taught me nothing. I can speak barely a word of real Spanish.

Despite four years of study!

I feel so dumb. The grin fades on my face, and I blink in the sunlight, panicking. “Lo siento,” I finally gulp out, “No entiendo.”

Tavo leans in. “Guillermo just asked you how your trip was.”

Giving him a grateful glance, I turn to Guillermo. “Oh! Bien. Gracias.” I catch Tavo’s eye. “I’m not used to actually speaking Spanish. More just reading it in class. Quiero aprender.” I save my violent thoughts for my teachers for a later time.

Tavo beams. “You will learn. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of my family. He whispers, “I got you, guapa.” An older woman overhears him say this, and his face immediately becomes more distant. It’s odd. Did I do something wrong? Did he?

Guapa. Shane never really compliments me on anything. I know he appreciates my appearance. Right? He must, otherwise he wouldn’t be with me. But as I rack my brain, I can’t think of a time he let me know I looked nice other than when we dressed up for a fancy occasion.

Tavo, on the other hand, seems to compliment me with every sentence.

I like that.

A dark-haired beauty, the one who made Tavo’s face straighten, extends her slim hand to shake mine. She’s wearing a red blouse and black slacks. Leaning in, she gives me two kisses, one on each cheek. Like Tavo at the airport and Guillermo just now.

Now I really don’t feel so special. This must be the standard, Spanish-style greeting.

I read too much into those kisses at the airport.

My libido vanishes, and I’m grateful for the cold shower of reality. I don’t need to be all sexed up here in Spain. It’s going to be hard enough just to understand basic sentences.

As she kisses my cheek, I get a whiff of her baby powder-like perfume, and do my best not to kiss her nose.

I’ll catch on.

Tavo introduces me to the woman, and he does it like I’m an honored guest and he’s introducing me to someone who matters to him.

“Kim, bienvenidos,” she says. “Me llamo María Luisa. Soy la madre de Tavo y la dueña de esta granja.” While her words are pleasant, her jaw is set and her eyes narrowed.

I understand about every third word. In summary, she’s Tavo’s mother.

This is going to be a long semester.

After taking longer than is socially appropriate to respond, I finally say. “Um, encantada.”

She immediately switches to thickly accented English. “We are pleased you are here. Were your travels good?”

“Sí. The flight passed so fast. I can’t believe I’m in Spain!”

I’m so grateful she’s housing me, but she still has a reserved look on her impassive face. No warm smile. Again, is this a Spanish thing or her personality?

Another brother steps forward interrupting her, slaps Tavo on the chest, and starts saying something rapid-fire. “Hombre, ¿Cómo no me dijiste que era tan bonita la guiri?”

The noise from Tavo is almost a growl. “Mantente alejado de ella, Antonio. Es mía.”

Antonio cracks up laughing at whatever Tavo said. He’s handsome like Tavo and Guillermo, but his hair is shaved almost in a buzz cut, and he has braces on his teeth, which make his grin goofier. He turns to me and asks, “¿Todas en los Estados Unidos son tan hermosas como tú?”

Now Tavo really growls, shooing him back. “Joder. Antonio, sal de aquí.”

“Vale, vale. Es tuya.” He reaches in, kisses my cheeks, and says, “Bienvenidos.” Then he raises a suggestive eyebrow at me, turns to Tavo, cackles in laughter, and beats a retreat. Okay, so he’s a flirt like his younger brother. I’ll watch it around him, too.

“Mucho gusto,” I call after him and wave.

Tavo introduces me to his grandfather, who steps forward, dapper in a sweater vest and a snap-front hat, even though it’s not by any means cold. He kisses my cheeks, too.

This time, I figure it out and internally congratulate myself for learning how to be kissed in Spain.

“Es un placer conocerte,” his grandfather says. He has the same eyes and proud air as Tavo, but his hair is shorter and neater. I can’t help thinking if Tavo grows up to resemble his grandfather, he’ll be an outstanding specimen of man. Hoo-boy.

More and more people step forward to meet me. I’m introduced to Tavo’s grandmother, aunt, uncle, sister, and another guy who I think is the sister’s boyfriend. I’ve now officially been kissed by more people than I have in my entire life, and I’m appreciative of the gentle respect with which Tavo takes care of me.

While thankfully, most of them try to speak English to me, it’s almost as hard to understand their English as their Spanish. Their English pronunciation follows Spanish norms, like not saying the h in hello, so I need a moment to understand what they said, even though it’s in my language. And their real-world Spanish isn’t like my college class, where we spoke slowly, repeating everything, with long pauses between words. I figured it would be hard, but not this hard.

Also, I’m the center of attention. In Iowa, everyone always knew what I was doing, where I was going, and who I was doing it with, since I lived with my parents. Not that I ever did anything interesting. But here, it’s another level. Like major league everyone in your business. I can’t imagine keeping anything from this family. There are just too many of them.

Tavo steers me away from the family, saying something in Spanish that gets them to back off. I think he’s saying to give me a chance to rest. “Allow me to show you to your room.”

My mouth dries and adrenaline rushes through me as I’ll finally see where I’ll stay for the semester. I wave so long to everyone and follow Tavo, who’s carrying my bags, into the stone farmhouse. I could do it, but I’m sure Tavo wouldn’t hear of it. While I’m good with being a competent, modern woman, it’s a luxury to be treated like this.

He glances over his shoulder and gives me his smile, which makes my breath stutter. Will I ever get used to it? “I will give you a tour later, but I think you want to see your room now, no?”

“Yes.” I nod vigorously, getting slightly lightheaded. While I want to explore the grounds of this historic farm, I can’t help but ogle him as we walk. His tight ass in those jeans is scrumptious. He has a swagger to the way he walks. Like he’s secure in who he is and his place in the world.

We enter the ancient stone house through a heavy, dark wooden door, and step into an enormous old kitchen.

It fascinates me—I just love other people’s kitchens.

Huh. That’s something I didn’t realize I’d shunted aside until I came here, but I’ve always loved to be in a kitchen. Mom discouraged my experiments because of her weight loss company. Shane rarely eats what I make, choosing instead to cook steamed broccoli with baked chicken—or those protein shakes. As I’m here though, I want to take every opportunity to learn to cook Spanish food. I scan the room.

Faded green cabinets line the ceiling and floors. There’s an ancient, commercial grade range, several ovens, and all sorts of things hanging from the ceiling, from well-scrubbed copper pans to dried herbs to bunches of braided garlic, onions, and peppers. Open shelving takes up one wall, storing olive oil in a dark corner. A huge center wood block table appears to do double-duty, both as a place to prep meals and to eat. It could seat sixteen easily.

I follow Tavo out the back door of the kitchen, down a stone-floored corridor with open double-hung windows that let in the breeze. We take a sharp left and head to a tile-floored newer wing of the house. We pass a living room, several closed doors, which must be bedrooms, and finally at the end of the hall, we stop at a dark red door. Tavo opens it, and my heart leaps.

“This is yours.” He hovers in the doorway, as if he wants to come in, but he’s giving me privacy. I appreciate that. It’s courteous, and he’s putting my needs before his.

I step inside.

The small room has white walls with a cross over the bed, a twin bed, a little desk and chair, and a tall, dark wood wardrobe. Nothing else. No closet. It’s the definition of minimalistic.

I immediately love it. There’s space for me to figure out what I want. Unlike my bedroom at home, this room is my clean slate, my new me, a launchpad for exploration. My mind starts constructing how I’m going to make it my own—at least for the months that I’m here.

A leafy tree outside shades it from the heat of the day. I stride over to the window to take in the view of rolling rust-colored hills and soft olive trees spaced evenly throughout.

He holds up my bags as a question, and I gesture for him to come in. Stepping in and setting down my bags by the bed, he pauses, watching me. Then he tilts his head and rubs his chin. “You like?” he asks with a hopeful tone.

“I love!” My cheerful exclamation makes his shoulders drop in relief and a satisfied expression spread on his face.

“This used to be my room. When I went to University, I moved out to the little house behind the barn. Do you want me to set up your Wi-Fi before I leave you to unpack?”

I perk up. “Yes, please.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “You have an adapter?”

“Adapter?” I need to adapt to all kinds of things.

“For your computadora?”

“Oh, yes, I do.” I sit down at the desk, rummage in my backpack, pulling out laptop, books, and notebook, and hand the adapter to him.

He plugs in my computer, asks me to log on, then I turn the laptop over to him. After typing in the Wi-Fi password, he says, “I’ll write it down too, just in case.”

Leaning over me to open the desk drawer, I glimpse the smooth, tan, touchable side of his torso, a sliver of skin above his belt where his shirt pops up. Pulling out a sheet of paper and a pencil, Tavo writes down the password—aceitedeOliva—in curvy European writing, and turns to leave, then pauses in the doorway. “I shall leave you to get settled.” I nod. “Dinner a las diez.”

“Wait. Dinner at ten?” My stomach rumbles.

He grins. “We like to eat in the dark.” And he turns on his heel and disappears.

I sit for a moment jittering my foot against the floor.

I did it. I left Iowa. I’m here in Spain.

“I’m in Spain!” I shriek aloud, then cover my mouth with my hand.