He let out a startled, genuine laugh. "It’s Borja, actually. And the boat is named after my mother. My grandmother’s name was much too long to fit on the hull."

Borja grinned, slipping his ruined loafers back on with a shrug. "Lead the way, Raquel. I’ve always liked a challenge."

Raquel rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the small smile tugging at her mouth. "Of course it is."

As they walked toward the metro, the girl from the outskirts and the boy from the golden mile, the labels started to feel a little less permanent. Maybe he was a Cayetano, and maybe she was exactly who she thought she was, but under the Madrid sky, they were just two people walking toward a better cup of coffee.

She had bumped into him—literally—outside a coffee shop in Salamanca. Her iced latte had done a graceful, tragic arc onto his suede loafers.