Carlos Sainz

Madrid in November always seemed a little grayer to Carlos than usual, but he loved that grayness—it was easy to lose himself in. After the grueling triple-header of races in America and Mexico, "Smooth Cameraman" wanted only one thing: peace and quiet and a good coffee somewhere where he wouldn't be asked to take a selfie.

He walked into a small coffee shop in the La Latina neighborhood, pulling the peak of his cap down low. A girl sat in the corner, right by the rain-streaked window. There was no phone in front of her—only an open notebook, in which she was busily scribbling with a charcoal pencil, and a half-eaten croissant.

Carlos ordered his Cortado and, without knowing why, remained standing at the bar, watching her movements. She didn't look like a paddock model or a Monegasque socialite. There was a wild, natural freedom to her look—tousled dark curls, charcoal-stained fingers, and a gaze directed somewhere beyond the room.

As he passed her table, someone leaving the room brushed against him, sending a few drops of hot coffee spilling from his cup onto the edge of her notebook.

"Damn, I'm so sorry!" Carlos instantly snatched the napkin, trying to save the drawing.

The girl raised her head. Her eyes were the color of strong tea with golden sparkles. She didn't get angry or scream. She simply smiled softly, watching him awkwardly blot the paper.

"Calm down," her voice was low and drawn out. "This is just a sketch. Now this tree will have a coffee shade. It's even conceptual."

Carlos froze. Usually, people either froze at the sight of him or started talking about Ferraris. She looked at him as if he were just a clumsy guy in a wet jacket.

"I can buy you a new notebook. Or another croissant," he offered, feeling his vaunted "smooth operator" confidence evaporate.