Page 27 of From LA to London, With Love

Chris and I peered over his shoulder, our bodies touching as we strained to see the screen. God, he smelled good—a woody cedar smell with a hint of musk. Warm and masculine. It took all my effort to focus on the screen instead of daydreaming about us on a romantic horse ride in Regency attire, his body pressed against mine as we galloped through a cedar forest.

“Does that look like him?” Francisco asked, pointing at the crate and, thankfully, breaking my thoughts.

We could just make out a small golden fluff ball looking frightened in the crate. Even though Chris didn’t speak Spanish, he understood the question.

“That has to be him!” Chris exclaimed, returning to an American drawl in his excitement.

Francisco hit play, and we watched people pick up the various packages until only the crate and possibly one or two other packages behind a bin remained. A woman walked up, peered into the crate, looked at the label on the lid a few times, glanced around, and then picked it up. She carried it over to the counter to sign something and then walked away.

“Okay, that’s who you are looking for,” Francisco said. He rewound and zoomed in on the woman’s face.

She looked confused and not at all like a dog-napper. Chris and I leaned in further. I took a deep breath of cedar and forced myself to focus on the woman. While it was hard to make out her features, she had brown hair, and based on her outfit, I suspected she was in her twenties.

I had an idea. “She’s looking around like she isn’t sure this is the right parcel. Did any other packages arrive at the same time that weren’t picked up? It looks like there may be at least one behind the bin there, which she might not have spotted.” I said to Francisco, pointing to the screen.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know. I just do security,” Francisco replied, sounding apologetic. “But Carlos might be able to help you with that.”

We thanked him and returned to Carlos, who called the cargo area. Two packages hadn't been picked up after this morning’s flight from LA.

“I can’t give you their details for privacy reasons, but both parcels are still sitting there. So, if you just happen to see them yourself, there’s nothing I can do about it,” Carlos said with a wink.

He gave us directions to the cargo area and wished us all the best, and we set off. When we arrived, another flight must have just landed, because the airline employees were offloading more packages and pets in crates. We searched through the packages sitting there for stickers indicating that they had come from LAX this morning. There seemed to be a lot of musical instruments and sporting equipment, with a smattering of pets, but they’d all recently arrived from Paris. Elliot was fascinated by a tabby cat in a crate near the pram, who kept hissing at him.

“Found one!” Chris said at the same time I found another. We sorted through the rest of the packages but didn’t find any others from the LAX flight.

Both packages we’d found were addressed to women—Laura Suárez and Isabel Torres.

“Here’s the signature of the person who signed for Alfie,” Chris said.

We huddled over his phone, comparing it to the two women’s names. The signature was such an unintelligible scrawl that it was impossible to tell whether it was Laura’s or Isabel’s. But at least now we had two names and addresses to work with. Chris typed the addresses into Google maps. I peered at his phone, our shoulders touching. God, he really smelled good. I inhaled deeply.

“It looks like we’re in luck,” he said, slipping back into his posh accent yet again. “They both live near downtown Barcelona. We still have a couple of hours before Elliot’s bedtime, right? Why don’t we take the parcels, deliver them to their owners, and see if either of them has Alfie?”

“They won’t just let us take the parcels, Chris,” I said with mild frustration. Ah, the confidence of the privileged white male.

He didn’t seem fazed. “Given they let someone else take Alfie, they obviously don’t pay that much attention to ensuring only authorized people pick up the packages. I’m at least going to try.”

Chris, channeling the arrogant duke, strode up to the counter and signed for both packages. I held my breath, convinced he’d be stopped. I didn’t fancy having to use my Spanish-speaking skills to defend Chris against charges of stealing packages. I had not signed up for a trip to the Barcelona police station. My heart beat faster as the attendant handed him some papers to sign. Surely she would notice Chris signing for two different people, both of whom were women. But she didn’t bat an eyelid. I breathed out a sigh of relief as Chris walked back to me, holding the two packages and smiling.

Manuel, the driver Chris had hired for the trip, was waiting for us at the pick-up location. He greeted us with a big smile. His English was excellent, but when Chris started telling him why we were visiting Barcelona, the look of confusion on his face indicated he thought he’d misunderstood something. I confirmed in Spanish that no, his English wasn’t failing, and yes, we were here on a mission to find a dog. I guessed it wasn’t every day he got to help reunite a celebrity with his lost puppy.

Isabel Torres was the first stop along the way.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SOPHIE

THE EXCITEMENT really hit me as Manuel drove the car toward El Poble Sec, a neighborhood nestled between the foothills of Montjuic and the port. There was a distinct Mediterranean feel to the place. Old buildings with cast iron balconies painted in warm orange, peach, and yellow tones, the roll-up doors of the closed shops at the base of the buildings covered in colorful street art. A smattering of palm trees. People sitting out on the pavement or in leafy green squares, enjoying after work drinks. We most definitely weren’t in London anymore.

The streets narrowed as we got closer to our destination.

“Here we are,” Manuel said, pulling up outside Isabel’s elegant old apartment building.

Manuel couldn’t park on her street, so he dropped us outside the front door. I could smell the sea in the breeze. We must have been even closer to the port than I realized. We walked up the stone steps, and Chris pushed the buzzer in front of an imposing wooden door.

“Hola,” a woman said.

My stomach fluttered with nerves. Just this morning, I’d been hanging out at my parents’ house with Elliot. Now we were in Spain, trying to track down a lost dog and delivering packages to strangers. What the hell were we doing?