Perhaps Dean had a point there. Don Juan curled into the armchair he had taken up and considered. The question wasn't really so much how she had found him in Spain, but rather why. Even though he had been off the beaten path somewhat (— more than he would care to admit to Hudson; the entire chapter of his relationship with Valencia felt humiliating in hindsight) it wouldn't have been hard to ask around and deduce where he was. But it would have taken some effort for her to get to Spain in the first place, then to figure out what had happened to him, then to travel to the bungalow where he was holed up with Valencia. It was an awfully lot of work for someone to go through when they didn't care if he lived or died. He'd chalked it up to spite at the time — Adriana could certainly hold a grudge, and she had a temper — but now he wondered if there was more to the story. But if there was, he'd never learn it now that she was gone.

It was egotistical to even consider the idea that she had been thinking of him steadily since he'd left, wasn't it? Watching him from afar, keeping track of any news, hoping for him to come back. If she had wanted him back she would have said so, and she never had. She could not have still been in love with him — could she have?

"Nothing," he said in answer to Hudson's question. "She yelled at me and then she left. Back to Holland, presumably." He hadn't even asked where she was living, only whether she wanted a divorce. How might that have stung if she had been waiting on him to come crawling back to her at some point? But he still didn't know if he could really believe that, as a premise — Adriana seemed too confident, too strong, too unknowable and uncontainable to have wasted a decade of her life pining for someone like him.

On the other hand — he had sent Dean a letter with no explanation and no signature, and then he'd canceled a work thing and trudged out to the wilds of Ireland.

"Hudson," he said, looking up abruptly to meet his eyes. "Do you still love me?"

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