Chapter NineThe heat of the day had dissipated, locals milling about as Jake watched from a table outside the Don Quixote. A van had pulled up outside the restaurant a few minutes previous, two local men unloading several boxes as the diesel engine gently puttered its fumes into the Andalucían sky. “Hello,” a female voice started, causing Jake to look up at a young woman with a pen and paper in her hands.
“Err, hi,” he responded, smiling up at her.
“What can I get for you?” she asked, her lilting Spanish accent pleasing to his ears.
“Could I have a large cerveza and the paella de mariscos, please.”
“No problem. I thought you were English,” she stated, placing a hand on her hip.
“Does it look that obvious?”
“Not so much. I just know these things. There is an Englishman staying above.
