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Earlier, I searched the top spots for a night out on my own and found The Mille Cocktail Club, which boasted killer food and a massive selection of spirits.

I wanted mind-blowing food, a kickass highball, or a proper pour of small-batch bourbon, and perhaps some acoustic blues to drown out the chatter in my head.

The driver pulled up to a shadowed cobblestone alley and pointed toward a subtle brass plaque on a vintage oak entry.

I tipped him, stepped out, and pushed the door open.

Inside, warm amber lighting fell on curved leather booths, highlighting a glass display housing dozens of rare, aged rums.

Smooth, slow jazz drifted through the room, the atmosphere relaxed and subdued.

A host led me past a handful of hushed conversations to a small marble table set by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.

Outside, the Mediterranean stretched off into the night, white froth riding the crests of waves before smashing against the stone pier.

A server in a crisp linen vest stepped up to me and slid a glass of water onto a coaster.

‘Let me craft a custom pour for you tonight,’ he offered in accented English with a Spanish lilt. ‘Tell me your profile.’

‘Make it complex,’ I said. ‘Bourbon or rum base, wood smoke, not too sweet.’

‘Say no more.’

Minutes later, he set a crystal tumbler on the table.

Within, a swirling veil of oak smoke rose from a jeweled amber mixture.

I lifted the rim to my lips.

Charred orange peel, raw honey, and deep vanilla hit my tongue, followed by the slow burn of aged Guatemalan rum mixed with straight rye.

It was unreal.

‘Got the chef’s tapas selection ready for you,’ the server said, returning with three stoneware plates.

They soon arrived, piled high with garlic-butter octopus, seared beef tenderloin skewers drizzled with chimney sauce, and thick slabs of toasted, crusty bread.

The beef melted in my mouth, the savory garlic and seared crust striking the perfect balance against the cold, complex drink.

I took my time, letting the rich flavors settle as my gaze drifted around the room.

Two tables over, a couple was laughing over a shared dessert, their fingers intertwined near a burning candle.

A sudden, dull ache tightened my chest.

I wanted Ana sitting across from me, in a sleek, figure-hugging dress, her gorgeous eyes sparkling as we argued over which plate to finish first, before showtime between the sheets.

Fuck.

Loud laughter and the clatter of high heels broke through my brooding thoughts and the room’s hushed vibe.

Patrons turned toward the entrance as a boisterous group of eight swept inside.

Flashy clothes, rapid-fire English accents, and oversized sunglasses at night made it clear this was a traveling fashion crew.

Right in the center was a statuesque, breathtaking woman, her dark skin gleaming under the warm lights.

In a bright yellow-gold slip dress that draped to her ankles, she stood almost six feet tall, with stunning afro curls tumbling down her back.