Chapter Nine
T wo weeks in Valencia, and I’m finally starting to feel a little more like I actually belong here.
The city has a rhythm of its own. Vibrant and alive, but relaxed at the same time. It’s almost like it’s in no rush to impress you because it knows it doesn’t need to.
Laura insists that she’s going to come and visit me soon, but for now, I’ve spent most of my free time exploring, letting myself get lost in the winding streets.
The Mercado Central has become one of my favorite spots. It’s a sprawling marketplace with beautiful stalls, and I’ve even started my own little ritual of buying a horchata from the same vendor just outside the market. It’s a sweet, creamy drink that’s becoming a regular indulgence, and I honestly don’t know how I’ll cope once I return to England and have to live without it.
Teaching has been its own kind of challenge, but one I think I’m really starting to get the hang of. The kids are lively - sometimes exhausting - but mostly eager to learn, which makes it all worth it. Plus, my colleagues are incredibly supportive. Yesterday, the headteacher, María, popped into my classroom unexpectedly to observe one of my lessons, and though I was nervous at first, by the end, she was smiling from ear to ear .
“Muy bien, Olivia,” she had said with a nod. “You have a good way with the students.”
I don’t know why, but that simple compliment buoyed me for the rest of the day. Like a little sign from the universe that I’m on the right track.
Tonight, though, it’s not about work. I’m heading out to dinner with Sarah to celebrate before she officially goes on maternity leave for the next four months. It means she won’t be back to teach the students until their new academic year after the summer holidays, so I’ll be covering until the summer.
She’s been a lifesaver over the course of these past two weeks, not just by showing me the ropes in the classroom, but also helping me navigate the nuances of Spanish life. I’m happy for her, but I’m really going to miss having her around.
Given that she knows the area much better than I do, Sarah picks out a restaurant for us. I’ve insisted that dinner is my treat, and I wanted no expense spared. After all, what are savings for?
We approach the restaurant together, and I think of how it looks like something out of a magazine.
The exterior is understated yet elegant, with pale stone walls adorned by wrought-iron lanterns casting a warm glow over the entryway. A sleek black awning hangs above the glass double doors with the restaurant’s name etched in gold cursive letters. Tall plants in matching black pots frame the entryway, swaying gently in the light evening breeze, and I’m already impressed.
We’re led to our table by a sharply dressed waiter, and despite the effort I’ve made in my appearance tonight, I still feel a little out of place. This is exactly what I wanted, though - it’s the kind of restaurant that feels like a treat, where you can pretend for an evening that life is as glamorous as the setting around you.
Soft jazz plays in the background, lightly audible over the quiet hum of conversation, and chandeliers twinkle above. The walls are a mix of warm, golden hues and rich, dark wood paneling, while the tables are dressed in crisp white linens, each set with gleaming silverware and a single candle flickering at the center.
“This place is unbelievable,” I say as we settle into our table.
“I thought you’d like it,” Sarah replies. “It’s the perfect way to spend my last night out before I become a mother-slash-hermit.”
The waiter takes our drinks order and returns promptly. I raise my glass of white wine, and Sarah gently taps it against her own glass of sparkling water.
“To you and your little one,” I say. “May they inherit your sense of humour and not your spreadsheets.”
Sarah bursts out laughing. “Amen to that.”
We fall into easy conversation, reminiscing about the funny mishaps I’ve already had at work and the little victories that have come, too. She tells me about how she met her partner when she first moved to Spain, and how it felt to build a life here, far away from her family back in Bristol.
As the evening winds down, we order dessert and linger over the last of our drinks. When we finally ask for the bill, I feel a pang of bittersweetness.
“I’m going to miss you, you know,” I tell her as I place my card down on the table. “It’s been so lovely working with you.”
“Don’t go getting all sappy on me,” she says. “My hormones can’t take it!”
We step out of the restaurant shortly afterwards, and the cooler night air greets us. It’s certainly warmer than any February I’ve experienced back home, but I’m relieved to have a light jacket draped over my shoulders. I can hear the faint sounds of music from a nearby street performer, and the cobblestones glisten faintly under the streetlights.
We cross the road together, and for a moment, everything feels almost magical.
Then, I hear it.
I turn my head over my shoulder and spot the source of the noise.
A sleek black sports car glides up to the curb, its polished exterior practically gleaming under the glow of the streetlights. The faint purr of the engine hums before the driver’s side window rolls down, smooth as silk.
I don’t process what I’m seeing at first, but when my eyes finally land on the figure behind the wheel, my heart skips a beat.
I’d recognize that face anywhere.
Santi .
He’s even more handsome than I remember. The crisp white shirt he’s wearing clings to his broad shoulders, the top two buttons undone, revealing a sliver of his collarbone and the smooth olive skin beneath. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his strong forearms, and his muscles flex slightly from where he rests one arm casually against the open window.
Then there are his eyes. My goodness, his eyes.
Those beautiful piercing green eyes lock onto mine from across the street, holding me captive. They’re just as magnetic, just as disarming as the night we met, and I feel as though everything is moving in slow-motion around me as I just… we ll, stare.
A slow, confident smile tugs at his lips - the kind that seems to say he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
It throws me completely off balance.
For a long moment, nothing happens. Santi doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just watches me out of his car window with that amused expression, his gaze steady and unrelenting.
I know it sounds crazy, but I swear that it’s almost as though he’s daring me to come closer, to break the silence first.
Beside me, Sarah nudges my arm, snapping me out of whatever trance I’d fallen into.
“Who’s that?” she asks, her voice laced with curiosity as her eyes dart between me and the sports car.
The sound of her voice jolts me back to reality, and I tear my gaze away from his, my cheeks burning with embarrassment as my heart races.
“Oh,” I say, fumbling over my words, my mind scrambling for an explanation. “Just... someone I met last week,” I mumble, tugging at her arm in a desperate attempt to keep moving.
Sarah, however, is rooted to the spot, her gaze still fixed on Santi.
“He looks familiar,” she muses, her brow furrowing as she studies him more closely. “Like... really familiar. Where do you know him from?”
“I really don’t know him,” I say, lowering my voice as the sound of the car engine cuts off. My pulse quickens as I hear the faint click of the car door opening. Shit. “We just bumped into each other at a bar. Briefly. That’s it.”
Sarah gives me a sideways glance, her smile widening .
“Well, he’s cute,” she says matter-of-factly. “And from the way he’s staring at you, it’s pretty obvious he’s interested. You should go talk to him.”
“No!” I say sharply, my voice a little too high-pitched. I grab her arm again, my grip tightening. “I mean - not tonight. Let’s just go.”
But Sarah’s gaze is locked on Santi, who is now standing beside the car. He’s taller than I had remembered, his broad frame cutting an imposing figure under the streetlights.
Not that I’ve been thinking about him, or anything. Nope. Absolutely not.
Another man steps out from the passenger side. He’s shorter, with sandy hair and paler skin. They exchange a few words before Santi glances back at me, his eyes lingering.
“Seriously,” Sarah says, her grin turning teasing. “Why don’t you just go and say hi?! I can wait for a few minutes.”
“No, Sarah, I’m serious. Let’s go ,” I say firmly, tugging her arm hard enough that she finally moves, though I’m careful not to jostle her precious cargo.
She must sense my awkwardness because, mercifully, she drops the subject. But as we continue down the street, she can’t help but glance back over her shoulder.
I don’t dare risk another look.
“I swear I’ve seen his face somewhere before,” she mutters, more to herself than to me. “Maybe on TV or something? It’s going to drive me mad. You really don’t know who he is?”
“No idea,” I reply, my voice clipped, though my mind is racing.
I can feel the weight of Santi’s gaze lingering long after we’ve turned the corner, and the memory of his confident smile burns in my mind .
Even as Sarah chatters on about how familiar he looks, I can’t help but wonder why fate seems so intent on throwing us together. And what exactly he wants from me.
∞∞∞
Back at my apartment, I can’t shake the image of him from my mind, try as I might. The car, the smile, the way he looked at me like he knew something I didn’t…
Who is he?
And why does he seem so familiar, even to Sarah?
I give into my curiosity and reach for my phone from my nightstand to start my internet stalking.
But with so little to go on - just his first name, his general location and a vague sense of recognition - it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack. No matter how many variations of “Santiago, Valencia, man” or “Santiago, Valencia, black sports car” I type, nothing relevant comes up.
With a tired sigh, I toss my phone onto the bed and accept defeat.
Maybe it’s all in Sarah’s head - baby brain, or something. Or even if he was someone of note, then maybe it’s better not to know.
After all, he’s just a random stranger. Nothing more.