I met up with Becca near Las Ramblas in downtown Barcelona. She was dressed in a tight bright dress and flats. She led us through the narrow, gothic streets of the city, which were packed with tourists and locals alike. The night air was cool, but I stood by my decision to wear a short skirt.

The streets were lined with shops, restaurants and bars; performers in outrageous costumes tried to gain favor of passersby, and maybe a Euro or two. It seemed Becca wasn’t the only one that felt Tuesday nights were meant for revelry. While I was still getting my bearings, it seemed my new friend had a comfortable lay of the land. After a half hour or so of walking, we arrived at the legendary Fire Shots bar. The line to get in was long, at least 20 or so people waiting.

“They have like a hundred different shots with really cool names,” Becca said as we stood in line. “Like, The Destructor or, The Last Shot You’ll Ever Take.”

“In English?” I asked.

“Yes.” She gave a small laugh. “It’s a little touristy and they cater to English speakers—why?”

I shook my head. “Just curious. Since I’m here, I kind of want to learn Spanish when I go out. Really immerse myself in the cultural experience…” Becca just gave me a look. Right. I was being too serious. “Well, do they at least have a dance floor?”

Becca’s eyes lit up. “Yeah girl! They have a really big one in the back. Do you like to dance?”

“Uh, yeah!” I exclaimed, feeling even better about tonight. “I was listening to Enrique Iglesias and practicing my dance moves in my room before I met up with you.” I didn’t add the fact that right afterwards, I dumped my douchy ex. “It’s always helped me with my mood. It’s my version of meditation.”

“Get out!” Becca turned to me. “You’re a home dancer, too?”

“Oh yeah,” I said, laughing. “I dance wherever I can. At home when my host family is out, in my room, in the shower…” I stopped short. “Well, I haven’t danced in the shower yet in Spain.”

Becca broke out into singing ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ by Shakira, and I joined her in rocking some killer dance moves in line. A few people ahead of us opened up some space for us, enjoying the impromptu show we were putting on.

People were actually starting to clap a little bit, when I noticed a very tall, very sexy man walked by us. I lost my dance rhythm as I realized who it was.

Chandler breezed past the line and went straight to the bouncer. He was with a couple of freakishly tall people. One of the guys had to be at least seven feet. His basketball buddies, I imagined.

The bouncer waved through Chandler and his entourage ahead of everyone else in the line.

“Hey, what’s up with that?!” I yelled from ten feet back where I had been waiting. “No cuts!”

And if anyone was getting to cut this line, it should have been me and my short skirt in this chilly weather, not my asshole roommate. Chandler turned his head in my direction, his eyes searching until they landed on me. His face lit up with a smile. “Oh hey, Squirt, what’s up?!”

Becca shot me a confused look. “Did he just call you Squirt?”

“Long story,” I said to her before turning back to Chandler. “Hey what’s up, yourself! You can’t just jump the line like that. Help us out!”

“I didn’t know you went out to bars, Squirt!” he yelled back, ignoring my question. “I thought you were just gonna Skype with your boyfriend in your room like a good little girl the whole time you were in Barcelona!”

My jaw dropped at his declaration, and those in line who understood English, openly snickered at me. The man was an asshole, plain and simple. I chided myself for having ever fantasized about him.

But it also wasn’t lost on me that he had been observing my relationship status. I thought he barely knew I existed, let alone knew anything or cared about my romantic life.

“Well now, I don’t think that’s any of your business, is it?”

He shrugged, gave the bouncer a first pound, and continued inside.

Becca stared at me. “Still waiting for the Squirt explanation. That’s a hell of a nickname.”

I sighed. “Let’s wait until after the first shot for me to explain.”

We didn’t see Chandler inside, but I didn’t much care. I had just dumped one asshole, and the point of tonight was for Becca and I to hang out and have fun—not for me to be made fun of some more.

So I was okay with not seeing another asshole.

Even though I wouldn’t mind catching another glimpse of those eyes of his.

Loud Spanish music played as we pushed through the packed crowds and found a spot at the bar. After we sat down and reviewed the drink menu, Becca ordered for us in English. I’d settled on the Rut Jumper shot, which was some combination of tequila and another liquor. Becca got something called The Man Finder.

“Barcelona got you down?” Becca joked, watching the bartender make her drink. “Need to get out of a rut?”

“I’ll settle in soon. It’s barely been a couple of weeks.” I frowned. “I don’t know, I’ve just been in a weird place since I got here. Although to be fair, I’ve felt off this whole school year for some reason, even back in Chicago. How about you? Still trying to find that special guy?”

Becca tossed her long blonde hair and spoke with that California confidence she carried all too well. “I am single and ready to mingle.”

Before the bartender handed us our shots, he blew out the flames in them. I looked at him, confused. “That’s it? I thought we’d take the flaming shots.”

He laughed. “No, no. Of course not. Just flames before. Too hot for your mouth with fire. You get burned.”

I shrugged. We clinked our glasses together, then flung the liquid back. It went down surprisingly smooth.

“Okay, shot taken.” Becca slammed her shot glass on the bar, her grin devilish. “Now tell me why Chandler Spiros calls you Squirt.”

I gave Becca the full rundown of our chance shower encounter this morning. She nodded in her casual way, seeming a little surprised, but mostly unfazed.

“That’s pretty hot. So…” She trailed off and pursed lips briefly. “Oh, never mind.”

“What were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask if you and him might hook up. But it doesn’t matter anyways because you have a boyfriend.”

“Actually, I don’t,” I admitted. “Not anymore.”

She gasped. “You don’t? But Chandler just said you did. Was he lying?”

“No, he wasn’t. I’ve Skyped with my boyfriend—well, now ex-boyfriend, Scott—every night since I got here. But I broke up with him right before I came here tonight.”

“Oh my gosh. Now the Rut Jumper shot makes sense! Was it you or him?”

Internally, I sighed. That was always the question when it came to my relationships. I went for a diplomatic answer. Not that I cared if she knew why exactly, but I didn’t feel like getting into the long answer in the middle of a loud bar. As much as I liked Becca, I wasn’t about to delve into my depression issues. Tonight was supposed to be for positive thinking, not dwelling on my own shortcomings. “Let’s just say…a combination of both of us. It’s for the best.” Thankfully, Becca didn’t push for details.

“So you’re back on the market as of tonight?! Look out, boys!” she belted toward the crowd, and a few men turned around, including Chandler before he turned back to his friends. “This one’s single and ready—”

“No no no,” I told her, trying to get her to stop. “I am not about to jump right back out there. I’m going to wait it out. See how it goes. I’ll definitely be hitting the dance floor to blow off some steam, though.”

For the rest of the night, Becca and I had a fantastic time getting to know each other sitting at the bar while we fended off a fair amount of men who tried to talk to us. We just weren't in the mood yet for that. It was a girls’ night.

"I'll be right back," I said. "I'm going to head to the bathroom. Watch my purse?"

She nodded and I headed to the back of the bar to find the bathroom. Even though I’d refrained from having as many shots as Becca and downing water just as fast, I was decently tipsy. I may or may not have swayed a little bit on the way to the bathroom. I'm not sure if that was what tipped off the creepiest guy in the universe, but I didn’t even make it the bathroom door when a shorter man, with dark balding hair and black eyes, cornered me almost instantly.

"Mi amor. Hello pretty girl," he said with a strong Spanish accent. The way he stood, there was nowhere for me to go but through him to get to the ladies’ room.

"Hola!” I answered and tried to breeze past him. He grabbed my arm, and instinctually I slapped him in the face.

"Owww!" he yelled. "What is your problema, chica?" He spoke in a sinister tone. My heart began to thump intensely because his grip hadn’t loosened and it was starting to hurt. We were also in the back of the hallway, all alone. Not good. “I just want to be your friend,” he added, in the same strange accent.

"Let go!" I screamed. He laughed and said something in Spanish to me I didn't understand. It was still empty out here, loud music reverberating through the bar.

The creep’s eyes shifted off me when someone came out of the other bathroom from behind me.

"Hey. Amigo." There was no mistaking the deep tambour of the voice speaking over my head. His voice had the same pitch as when we’d argued this morning in the bathroom. I looked over at him, still scared but mostly glad to see a familiar face.

The Spaniard spoke in rapid-fire Spanish to Chandler, who looked as if he could explode at any moment. I couldn't understand what the Spanish man said, but even with my rudimentary linguistic skills I knew what Chandler had told him.

"Es mi hermana." That's my sister.

When he said those words, the man's grasp instantly loosened, and he backed away with his hands raised in the air in an apologetic manner. I didn’t blame him. Chandler had a large, muscular frame and an intimidating look. His jaw flexed and his eyes were intense. He looked as though he wouldn’t mind a scuffle, which would likely involve this creepy Spaniard getting beat to a pulp. "I didn't know. I didn't know. I’m sorry," the man said, still holding his hands up.

Chandler mean-mugged him as he walked away.

"You okay, Squirt?" he asked, putting a hand on my shoulder. I was a little surprised by the tone of genuine concern his voice had taken on. My heart was stilling thumping like mad, and I felt all of my senses suddenly on edge as adrenaline coursed through me.

“I’m okay.”

"You're shaking." He put his other hand on my shoulder in an attempt to steady me.

"No, I'm not shaking,” I argued, stubbornly.

"Squirt. A sexy as hell girl like you in a seedy bar like this? You gotta watch out. The guys are gonna be all over you. You look hot as fuck tonight," he said, so calmly and earnestly. When Chandler said it, even I believed it was a widely accepted fact that I was hot.

"They are?" I looked up at him, uncertain. The club was dark, but there was a bit of light that flashed on his face so I could see his totally gorgeous dimples as he laughed again, the kind of big laugh that came from his belly.

"Oh please,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don't try and pretend you don’t know how hot you are. You're a regular matahombre, Squirt."

"A…what?"

"Matahombre,” he repeated. “You knock guys dead.” When I didn’t respond, he sighed and dropped his hands from me. “Man, I need to teach you some Spanish, don't I?"

I swallowed as I stared at him. In our third encounter, he’d already dished me out two separate compliments. But who was counting?

Scott had been as stingy with compliments as Scrooge McDuck was with his dollars. “Yes. You should teach me.” I could think of some other things I’d like for Chandler to teach me, aside from Spanish. But then I remembered that Chandler was an asshole.

"Let's head to the bar.” He moved aside. “I know just the shot for us."

“Um, I have to use the bathroom first.”

“I’ll wait here while you use el baño.” He smiled. “I’m starting you off slow with Spanish words, Squirt.”

I really hated that nickname, but I turned away only mildly irritated since he did save me from that Spanish creep. Worse, I checked myself out in the mirror to make sure my hair was still looking good and that my makeup wasn’t running. Why did I kind of like Chandler despite the fact that he could probably be diagnosed with textbook narcissist disorder? After I came out of the bathroom, I followed Chandler out toward the bar. He waved at his basketball friends to come over to us since they had been in a different area of the bar.

I introduced them to Becca, who was thrilled to meet some tall guys since she was over six feet and taller than the majority of the guys here. The other players with him were even taller than Chandler, which was saying something since he was around six foot three. Tall as they all were, they seemed to defer to him like he was the leader of their international crew.

Becca gave me a look, and I shot her a nod back, indicating that she should go for it with these guys. I wasn't trying to hook up with any of them—hell, it was less than a few hours ago that I had broken up with my boyfriend. I wasn’t even ready for a rebound yet.

The guys quickly took a shine to Becca, chatting with her and leaving Chandler and me off to the side on our own. He ordered us two shots, pushing one towards me and taking the other.

"To Dirty Sweet Girls," Chandler said, toasting Becca and me. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him as he looked off for a second then glanced back down at me. “This is my favorite shot. It’s got a little pineapple juice, Amaretto, and Baileys.”

"Pineapple juice, eh?” I reversed my earlier decision about having had too many shots. “Seems like a weird addition to this drink," I noted, going for polite observation over flat out snark. Also, I knew I really shouldn’t drink any more.

But damn him, he winked at me. “It’s the most important ingredient, trust me,” he added, touching me on my waist. It was light, so brief, but it had my brain cells go haywire. More precisely, in the gutter.

“If you say so,” I said as I raised my shot glass to his.

“Believe me, Squirt, you’ll like it,” he coaxed, then tossed his back.

I did the same. Surprisingly, the Dirty Sweet Girl was actually quite delicious. I set my glass down. “Not gonna lie, that was an interesting combination,” I admitted. “Goes down smooth but there is some bite to it.”

“Told you, it’s easily my favorite,” he returned, with a smile but watching me too closely, like he thought I’d react different. I couldn’t tell if he was fucking with me and making me try something really weird for no reason, just to gauge my reaction to all of this. I kept my mouth shut. No matter what, I wasn’t going to step up my flirty game with him. Maybe he was being nice to me now, but his cockiness was still annoying. Plus, he had a girlfriend.

I couldn’t help but wonder what Chandler’s shot would be, though. The DSG perfectly described me, but what would be his?

The Baller? No, he was too laid back.

The Smiling Dog? Chandler did always seem to have a cocky smile plastered on his face. But that’s when I saw it on the chalkboard menu behind the bar.

The Bad Decision.

Yep. That’s definitely what he was. But not one that I was going to make.

“Want to get another one?” I asked. “This chupito is on me.”

Chandler smiled. “Dropping the Spanish word for shot like it ain’t no thing. I like it, Squirt. How could I turn that offer down?”        

I bit my lip, unsure if this was a genuine or patronizing complement. I turned toward the bartender, and ordered, “Two Bad Decisions, please.”

I felt Chandler’s hand on the small of my back, and he turned my body slightly toward his. “I like your style,” he said.

Although I was shocked at feeling his hand there, like before, I didn’t hate it.

I liked it a lot. I felt a buzz course through me, and I couldn’t figure out if it was from Chandler’s presence or the booze. Probably both.

When his hand fell off me, I told myself that the pang of disappointment was nothing. Nothing at all.

As we each took our Bad Decision shot down, Chandler didn’t take his eyes off mine the whole time.

***

Two hours later, Becca and I had a nice buzz going (definitely alcohol related this time), and the endorphins were flowing. After a spell of dancing, we huddled around the tall guys, who were gesturing wildly, telling hilarious basketball stories that made fun of each other. I was impressed with how coherent their stories still were after the amount of shots we’d taken. Then again, they were all twice our mass.

“So Chandler bets me that he can dunk over my head,” said the one with a hilariously thick French accent. “I didn’t believe this Greek asshole could be so good for being so short."

His buddies were cocky like Chandler. But most of it was in an easygoing, a-good-ribbing-will-keep-us-tough kind of way.

"Jesus, if he's short, I’m a midget,” I piped up. “Hey, what is your ethnic background anyway?” I lobbed the question at Chandler, still curious. “I partly guessed Greek—and Italian, maybe?”

He looked at me with a serious expression, which was surprising since we were many drinks in, but also because I’d never seen Chandler uncomfortable or unsmiling.

“My mom is Spanish and Greek, so you’re close,” he said, his voice flat. “As for my dad? I have no fucking clue.”

I nodded, not having meant to broach a touchy subject. The guys all kind of looked down or away, like they had heard this story before and knew it wasn’t something Chandler wanted to talk about. That’s probably why I was interested in knowing those details. I made a mental note to ask him about his father at some later time, when we were alone.

A strange tension hung in the air for a moment, until Becca shrugged and broke the silence. “My family is from California, and my great-great grandmother, well, she was literally a prostitute during the Gold Rush. She was one of the original gold diggers. Get it?”

We all chuckled and the awkwardness disappeared. The group was back to its easy vibe before I’d ruined it with my stupid question. Somehow, Chandler got even more charming in my eyes—but I knew the booze was helping. A little. Mostly, I was just glad Becca had convinced me to come out. I’d needed this and I felt like the cloud over my head the past two weeks was finally fading away. Chandler’s friendliness eased my guard and I felt myself relax around him. Aside from being a bad decision waiting to happen, I swore his face lit up every time he talked or touched me, and mine did too, in turn. I wondered if my Dr. Han could prescribe me a daily dose of Chandler instead of my pills.

When you go months without having actual fun, and finally go out and have a great time, you don’t want the night to end. Still, it was time to leave, and the lights of the bar were starting to turn on.

After we took our last shots, I had to admit, I was starting to feel a few degrees past “just tipsy” on the drunk spectrum.

Since Chandler and I were headed to the same place, we said goodbye to Becca and his friends. He hailed us a cab, held the door open for me while I got in, then slid in next to me. Before giving the driver our address, he turned to me.

“You want to go home?” he asked.

I wiggled my eyebrows. “You want to stay out? It’s late.”

“The night is young in Spain.”

“Well,” I said, giving it half a thought. “I do have class tomorrow. Spanish Lit.”

Chandler laughed. “Oh yeah, how’s Don Quixote coming? Did you finish it yet?”

“Shut up,” I groused. “It’s like three thousand pages.”

“So do you think it would be a bad decision to go to a late night salsa bar I know of?” He arched an eyebrow my way. Little did he know, he’d just said the magic words.

Dancing was my Achilles’ heal and anyone that could actually salsa rose up in esteem but…Chandler? Salsa? I almost laughed out loud.

“You know how to salsa dance?” I asked, dubious.

He gave me a slightly offended look. “I’ll blow your mind,” he said in a flirty voice.

I set the challenge. “Prove it.”

Chandler smiled. “I will. Tonight.”

“How do you even know how to salsa?” I asked.

“It’s a great way to meet girls.”

I rolled my eyes. Chandler’s motivations were beginning to become rather apparent. At least he was honest.

“And, dancing late at night helps me to not be so hung over the next day for basketball practice,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “It gets the alcohol out of your system.”

I feigned that I was thinking hard to make this decision. However, there was no way was I turning down an opportunity to go out and dance more. Not tonight.

He looked at his watch as our driver cleared his throat and made a gesture for us to make up our minds, tapping the meter, which was running. “It’s two a.m. right now. Salsa goes until four. You ready to work up a sweat?”

“I guess…why not,” I said, putting up some resistance. I didn’t want to show my hand. “Let’s go.”