Abigail Cameron hadn't wanted to go out in the first place, but her friend and coworker Audrey had asked their boss where to find other off-hours operatives, and Michael Manchester had casually suggested the sangria bar on an alley off La Rambla.

A professional bar was the last place Abby wanted to be after a sixteen hour shift at a British Royal's engagement party, especially given the nature of their profession, but Audrey insisted. And so Abby had tagged along.

It was still strange to be at a bar without Eve. Eve had always been the outgoing, social, party girl of their group. She was a few years older, but she'd taken Abby and Audrey under her wing and dragged them out on the town whenever the moment presented itself.

But Eve had died stopping a presidential assassination attempt two years earlier. And she had saved Abby's life in the process.

Edward Townsend hadn't expected to find himself at a Sangria bar in Barcelona that night either, but after spending the day keeping the perimeter of a royal engagement party, he desperately needed a drink.

So this was it. This was what his career had come to.

Ten years ago, Townsend had been sure he was on track to be the fastest rising young star at MI6. But his investigation into one of the oldest, most secretive terrorist organizations in the world had gone absolutely nowhere.

He supposed it was bold of him to assume, at 20, that he even stood a chance of infiltrating the Circle of Cavan. But he had been so very close, until it all slipped away. This stupid little bar was where he'd first me the woman who called herself "Catarina," but whose real name, or at least primary alias, he had learned was "Catherine Goode."

And he'd been chasing her ever since.

So every time Townsend was in Barcelona on some inane assignment or another, he always came here.

But tonight there was another woman, a few years younger, with Catherine's same long dark hair. She turned, and Townsend found himself lost in the most devastatingly green eyes he'd ever seen. She leaned over the bar ten feet away, alongside her red-headed friend, looking bored.

And Townsend found that he couldn't take his eyes off her.

"So," the woman said, sliding onto a barstool beside him. "Are you buying me a drink or taking me out?"

Townsend was taken aback by her confidence, and before he could say a single word in response, she flipped her long dark ponytail over her shoulder and fixed him in her confident gaze.

"With the way you've been staring, you're either hitting on me, or planning a hit," she accused. "Which is it? Because I made a bet with my friend, and I might be off duty for the night, but I was kind of hoping for the latter."

The corner of Townsend's mouth snuck up in a smirk, as he turned to the bartender, and said, " A vodka soda for the lady please." Then he turned back to the woman beside him and cocked his head. "Assuming you're old enough to drink, love?"

"Shame," Abby rolled her eyes, and, not about to be outdone by some British blowhard, no matter how nice his jawline was, turned her eyes on the bartender. "It'll be a whiskey sour actually," she corrected, in perfect spanish.

"You're American?" Townsend asked.

"Tonight I am," she shrugged.

"Edward," he offered.

She snorted, though he wasn't sure why, and it might have been off-putting, but she raised an eyebrow at him in a "what have I got to lose" sort of expression, and said, "Abigail."

There was small talk, and alcohol, and good God, her eyes, which bore right through him in the most attractive and unsettling way. Her eyes, which were wild and excited but also careful and calculating, and maybe just a tiny bit sad all at the same time.

"So what's an MI6 agent doing at the queen's niece's engagement party?" she asked eventually.

"That's classified," he said calmly.

"Really?" Abby snorted. "Perimeter detail didn't look that classified when I saw you this morning."

"What makes you think I'm not with the Royalty and Specialist Protection Command?" Townsend shrugged.

"Nope," Abby said confidently. "It's the way you carry yourself, it's the private school accent, it's the expression on your face like you can't believe this is what your life has come to..." She trailed off. "Do I need to continue?"

Townsend chuckled. "I'm not going to fight you on your assessment," he said. "But for the sole purpose of restoring my reputation, I'll have you know, I've been working on a top secret, highly classified investigation for the last 8 years."

"Ok," Abby said curiously. "How's that going?"

"Not well," Townsend deadpanned.

Abby laughed. "I can see why you're drinking bad sangria on an early Tuesday morning then," she said.

"I'm sure you can't possibly relate," Townsend said. "I get the strong impression you're someone who is pretty good at what she does."

"Oh, I'm very good at what I do," Abby said with another hair toss. And the insinuation in her voice sent a wave of electricity through Townsend's entire body.

"Look," Abby said, casually placing her hand on Townsend's knee. "I've got about seven hours before I have to be on a plane at Morón. I could teach you some moves, if you're interested."

"Miss Abigail," Townsend said tightly. God, it was like he couldn't breathe with her touching him. "Are you trying to get past my cover or my clothes?"

She shrugged. "I guess you'll have to come with me to find out."

Abby slipped off the bar stool and moved toward the door, but Townsend wasn't about to let this woman think she had all the power, even if she absolutely did. So he caught her hand, pulled her around, and kissed her.

The hum of the bar faded away, and all Townsend could hear was the woman's sharp intake of breath, followed by her muffled moans as she leaned into the kiss and took control of it. Her hands found their way into his hair, her athletic frame pressed snuggly against his own, and he couldn't help but notice the way they fit seamlessly together, as his half-drunk heartbeat pounded in his ears. There was fire, and romance, and a mutual respect between them, and when Townsend woke the next morning in Abigail's hotel room, all he could think was that six hours of his life had never passed so quickly.

"Thanks for a fun night," Abby said lightly, standing in the doorway, a messenger bag resting on her left shoulder.

A fun night. It was the biggest understatement Townsend had ever heard. He had been around, sure, but he had never felt this passion, this connection, with any of the other women he'd been with.

But he was powerless to keep her here with him. He knew what this was. They both knew what this was. The life they led didn't make allowances for life-shattering nights, for unexpected connections with beautiful strangers. He didn't know her last name, didn't know any meaningful details about her at all, and yet, he had never felt more connected to anyone.

Townsend was out of bed now, moving toward her, but she held up a hand, and he stopped where he was.

"Don't make this harder," she said, and Townsend couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such an ache in his chest, one that only intensified when he realized she'd felt it too. That whatever this was between them, it was different. It was special.

And neither one of them had any choice but to walk away.

"I'm sure I'll see you around," Abby said lightly, but it sounded forced to both of them. "Goodbye, Edward."

"Goodbye, Abigail."

Then the door clicked shut and she was gone.

AN: I hope you enjoy my new Abby/Townsend fic! I've been truly inspired this summer, and I wrote this so quickly, but it's one of my favorite works. Normally I sit with my works for a long time before sharing them, but I just have to get this one out into the world. I hope you enjoy it. New chapters posted every Saturday, starting 9/4.