Carlos Olivas is grumpy, gorgeous, sixteen years older than me—and apparently my problem for the next two months.

When I moved to Madrid, I asked him out. He shot me down and then avoided me for months. It’s fine—we don’t work in the same department, and honestly, I don’t have time for men who can’t handle a woman who knows exactly who she is.

But when an opportunity arises to travel throughout Europe, meeting with patients and their families about a treatment deeply personal to me—hair loss prevention during chemotherapy—it comes with strings attached. Carlos is coming as my translator. And I have to give presentations.
I may be an extrovert. I still have a complicated relationship with stages.

City by city, I start to see past the stiff exterior. The man has a grandbaby and an elderly dog who adores him. He speaks five languages and notices everything. And somewhere between the first disastrous presentation and the last city on the tour, the layers that make us so different on the outside start to feel very thin.

Carlos has kept everyone at arm’s length for years. I’ve spent twenty years building a life that doesn’t depend on anyone staying.

One of us is going to have to move first.