Chapter Twelve
T he sun filters through my apartment windows as I finish curling the ends of my long, blonde hair in the mirror.
Spring in Spain feels more like summer in England, with balmy days that invite flowy dresses and cooler evenings that are perfect for alfresco dinners. My wardrobe has evolved with my new city, and I step into a simple pastel blue sundressthat skims my mid-thighs. It’s light and airy against the warmth that lingers even as the sun begins to set, and a pair of tan sandals completes the look along with the denim jacket draped over my arm in case the evening air cools.
I’ve touched up my make-up twice already, and as I swipe on a final coat of soft pink lipstick, my mind begins to wander.
I’ve spent far too much time scrolling through Santi’s social media over the past few days, trying (and failing miserably) to figure him out. His posts are deceptively down-to-earth for someone with his apparent level of fame and following. There are pictures of family dinners where he’s grinning alongside his mother and siblings, charity events where he’s surrounded by beaming kids holding rugby balls, and snapshots of post-match celebrations where he’s clutching a trophy, mud-streaked but undeniably radiant.
And hot. Can’t forget that .
All in all, it paints a picture of a man who is grounded, humble and thoughtful; but it doesn’t give me all that much to go off in terms of who he really is, to what his life is like beyond all of these carefully curated moments.
The tabloids, of course, are even more unhelpful. Most of the pieces I’ve come across are a mess of speculation and overly-dramatic headlines that are pure clickbait: “Santiago Ortiz Spotted with Mystery Woman—Who’s the Lucky Lady?” and “Inside the Private Life of Spain’s Rugby Star!”
Alright, so I may have clicked on one out of morbid curiosity. What’s a girl to do - especially when I’m trying to figure him out and get a better idea of who he is and why on earth he seems fixated on going on a date with me. Just one, though.
I’d found that it was a rehash of vague rumors and recycled quotes from unnamed sources, and I’d backed out of it almost immediately, my stomach twisting with unease. I’m definitely not cut out for this level of snooping: not only does reading that sort of stuff about him feel invasive, it also feels kind of creepy. Like I’m doing something that I shouldn’t.
Surprisingly, it’s the team’s official social media pages that have truly thrown me for a loop.
Their account is a mix of match highlights, behind-the-scenes snippets, and videos clearly designed to capitalize on the fact that their players aren’t just talented - they’re absurdly good-looking.
One video, set to a thumping bass-heavy track, opens with slow-motion shots of players warming up: bending over to stretch, their muscles taut and glistening in the sunlight; grabbing rugby balls with powerful, calloused hands; jogging across the field with an effortless swagger.
Another clip shows game highlights, the camera lingering just a little too long on players as they dive for the ball, their mud- streaked jerseys and shorts clinging to their bodies as they hit the ground. Santi appears during several clips, usually mid-play, his face a mix of focus and determination that’s somehow just as captivating as his smile.
It’s... a lot.
And if I’m being honest, it’s left me more flustered than informed.
The more I watch, the more it feels like I’m peering into a world I don’t belong to - a world where people like Santi exist, larger than life and completely unattainable.
So. I’m still no closer to knowing what this man wants from me. I do know that he has over one million instagram followers though, so there’s that.
I set down the lipstick tube, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are a little pinker than usual, and I tell myself it’s from the changing climate, not the mental image of Santi covered in mud and flashing that infuriatingly charming grin at the camera.
Focus, Olivia.
Taking a deep breath, I smooth out the front of my dress and grab my bag. Whatever tonight brings, I need to stay grounded.
After all, I barely know this man.
A sharp honk from outside jolts me from my thoughts, and I instinctively know it’s him. My heart picks up its pace as I grab my handbag, hurriedly tossing in my lipstick, gloss, and phone before heading downstairs.
I am greeted by the glorious sight of Santi leaning casually against his sleek black sports car. The car might be a work of art in its own right, but it’s honestly nothing in comparison to the gorgeous man beside it .
His short-sleeve, white shirt is crisp and perfectly pressed, revealing those strong, tanned forearms that look like they belong to someone who spends as much time working out as they do playing rugby. They’re thick, tanned and scattered with dark hairs, and honestly, I’m here for it.
The top three buttons of his shirt are undone in a way that I’m learning he favours, teasing just enough to show a glimpse of his golden skin and the faint outline of his collarbone. His dark jeans hug his lean, athletic frame, fitting him so perfectly it’s hard not to wonder if they were tailored just for him.
The way he stands is effortlessly confident, with his weight shifted slightly to one side, arms loosely crossed. His long dark hair is styled just enough to look managed but not overly fussy, and the shadow of scruff on his jawline adds a rugged edge to his otherwise polished appearance.
Then there are his eyes - my most favourite feature of his. Those piercing green eyes meet mine the second I step outside, practically glowing in the early evening light. They pull me in as they lock onto mine, a flicker of something playful and warm dancing in their depths.
“You look amazing,” he says, his voice smooth and low, wrapping around me like a warm breeze.
He pushes off the car and takes a step forward, the slight swagger in his stride so natural it makes my pulse quicken. As he reaches me, he leans down and places a kiss on each of my cheeks, the brush of his lips against my skin sending a shiver down my spine.
At least I was somewhat expecting it this time, so his proximity doesn’t catch me off guard.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
His cologne - that rich, woodsy scent with just a hint of spice - lingers in the air between us, intoxicating and utterly him. I’m tempted to ask him the name of it so that I never forget, but I figure it’s too weird of a question when we barely know one another.
He straightens and steps back, his gaze sweeping over me with an unmistakable sense of appreciation.
“You ready?” he asks, his lips curving into that familiar smile that’s both infuriatingly cocky and disarmingly sincere.
Before I can respond, he walks me around the car, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. The gesture is subtle but steady, grounding me as much as it’s sending my heart into overdrive.
He opens the passenger door with an easy motion, gesturing for me to get in. The interior of the car is just as luxurious as the exterior; with plush leather seats that feel buttery soft under my fingertips and the faint, clean scent of something expensive.
I slide into the seat, the cool leather against my skin a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from him.
“Thank you,” I say again, glancing up at him as he closes the door gently behind me.
He rounds the front of the car, his movements fluid and confident, and when he slides into the driver’s seat, he flashes me another grin that makes my stomach flip.
“This is - ah. Quite the ride,” I comment awkwardly.
“It gets the job done.”
The drive through the city is serene, its charm only heightened by the golden hour. The streets are alive with the buzz of people out for the evening, and I feel myself relaxing further with each second that passes .
“You know, I never gave you my address,” I say. “Should I be worried, stalker?”
I’m still nervous that my naturally sarcastic sense of humour might get lost in translation, but my smile widens at the sound of Santi’s laughter.
“In my defence, I only found out the building, not the actual number of your apartment,” he says. “That's why I couldn’t actually come and get you personally.”
“Ah,” I say. “I thought you just didn’t want to take the stairs.”
“What, you think I’m scared of a few stairs?” he laughs.
It’s a ridiculous statement given that he must know I’ve looked into him and know what he does for a living. Still, I play along.
“I wouldn’t blame you,” I say. “I am on the third floor.”
“Oh wow,” he responds, laughter in his voice. “Well, now you say that…”
When we pull up to the restaurant, I’m surprised. It’s nothing like the glamorous venues I’d worried about. Instead, it’s a small, tucked-away spot - the kind of place you’d never find unless someone told you about it - and Santi manages to snag a parking space right outside.
“This is not what I expected,” I admit as he holds the door to the restaurant open for me.
“Good surprise or bad surprise?” he asks, one brow quirking in playful curiosity.
“Good,” I say quickly, glancing around at the traditional interior. “Definitely good.”
The mismatched wooden chairs and chalkboard menus give it a homey, unpretentious feel, and I observe the tension in my shoulders dissipate as we step further inside. We’re seated by a pretty waitress at a table near the window, where the last rays of sunlight filter through.
“So,” he says, leaning back in his chair as he picks up a menu, “what looks good to you?”
“I’m thinking the grilled fish,” I reply, still scanning the options in case there’s anything I’ve missed.
“Great choice,” he says. “Guess I’ll have to order something else. Can’t have us looking like copycats.”
I laugh, and the ice between us melts even further.
Our starting dishes arrive, and the conversation flows as easily as the drinks. We talk about my teaching job, the challenges of moving to a new country, and the odd quirks of learning Spanish given that it’s been a while since I practised.
“So,” I say, tilting my glass toward him, “you’re a bit of a mystery. I still feel like I know next to nothing about you.”
Santi smirks, setting down his fork. “Maybe I like being a mystery.”
“Or maybe you’re still avoiding the question,” I counter in a sing-song voice.
“Touché,” he smiles before he leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to tell me a secret. “Fine. I’m just a guy who likes rugby, good food, and spending time with his family.”
“That’s it? No dark secrets or wild stories?” I tease, narrowing my eyes playfully.
“Not tonight,” he says with a wink, his grin infectious. “I have to maintain an air of intrigue, no?”
“Convenient,” I reply, laughing. “Keeps you off the hook.”
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Maybe you’re just fishing for scandal. Should I be worried? ”
“Not at all,” I say, feigning innocence. “I’m just... curious.”
“You are a curious little thing, aren’t you?” he smirks. My heart skips a beat at that. “Curiosity’s not a bad thing, though,” he continues, his tone softening. “It’s what brought you to Spain, right?”
I pause, his words striking a chord. “I suppose it is.”
A beat passes before Santi tilts his head, a mischievous spark lighting his eyes. “Speaking of curiosity... did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Do your research. Now that you know my name.”
His smirk is teasing, but there’s a challenge there, too. I feel heat rise to my cheeks as I set my glass down carefully.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” he repeats, leaning in again, his voice full of mock accusation. “That sounds suspiciously like a yes.”
“Okay, fine,” I admit, laughing softly. “I may have looked you up.”
He raises a dark brow at that. “And?”
“And… I didn’t expect it, of course,” I admit. “Lots of articles about games and awards. Some overly enthusiastic fan pages, too. But nothing too juicy.”
He laughs - a genuine, light sound - and his eyes crinkle at the corners. I can’t help but think of how handsome he is.
“Overly enthusiastic, huh?” he says. The comments seems to have tickled him, and I smile, too. “You should see the comments on my instagram.”
“Oh, I have,” I say, laughing as he shakes his head from side to side. “Apparently, you’re quite the heartthrob. There were literal debates over your best feature. ”
“And what are your thoughts on that?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard, but I don’t want to seem phased. “Personally, I think the eyes win.”
It’s hardly a lie - those green eyes of his are just gorgeous.
“Good choice,” he says smoothly, his easy grin widening.
“But seriously,” I say, shifting the tone slightly, “it must be… weird. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but you just don’t seem like the type of guy who wants all that attention.”
He shrugs, his smile fading slightly but not completely. “It comes with the territory,” he says simply. “I try not to let it get to me. Family keeps me grounded, and the rest… well. Tómalo con pinzas.”
“Tómalo con… Huh?” I repeat, my brows furrowing.
“Take it with a grain of salt,” he smiles softly.
“Ah. I see,” I nod. “That makes sense. Still, it must be kind of exhausting.”
“Sometimes,” he admits. “But I love what I do. When I was little, all of my friends were more interested in football, but rugby was my life. My uncle would take me to the matches, and I would see the players - these big, strong men - and I wanted it for myself. I dreamed I’d be here one day, and the game… it has given me so much. I wouldn’t trade it for anything - social media comments and all.”
“That’s… kind of amazing,” I smile.
“Amazing? You’re kidding me. Look at you,” he says. “You picked up your life and moved to a whole new country. That’s what I’d call amazing.”
I shrug. “I needed a fresh start.”
“And? Is it working? ”
I pause, considering his question. “Yeah. It is. Slowly, but it is.”
Santi studies me for a moment, his gaze steady.
“You’re very brave, Olivia.”
I blink at his sincerity, his words catching me off guard. There’s a softness in his tone, a quiet assurance that I wasn’t expecting.
It feels like he sees something in me I can’t quite see in myself, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say.
“Thanks,” I manage, my voice quieter than I intended. I attempt a smile, but the corners of my mouth don’t lift the way I want them to. Instead, I glance down at the table, fiddling with the stem of my wine glass. “I don’t… feel very brave most of the time.”
“Well, you are,” he says simply, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering.
The weight of his words hangs in the air, and I look up at him, surprised by the depth in his expression. His green eyes are warm - gentle, even - and for a second, everything around us fades into the background.
“Thank you,” I say again, softer this time.
A tiny knot forms in my chest. I’m taken aback by how sweetly spoken he is, how his words have somehow nudged open a door I thought I’d closed tightly after everything that happened back home.
Before I can dwell too long on the moment, our main courses arrive, breaking the stillness. I take a breath, glad for the distraction, and dive into my meal with renewed energy.
The conversation shifts to lighter topics, and I let myself laugh at his jokes, grateful for the way he effortlessly fills the space with humour and charm.
I offer him some of my grilled fish, and he feeds me some of his meal in return, grinning knowingly when my eyes drop to a close at how good it tastes.
But even as we chat and tease each other, his earlier words linger in the back of my mind, warming a part of me I hadn’t realised was still cold.
“So,” I say between bites, “is it true that rugby players eat, like, 5,000 calories a day?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. But close. Why - worried I’m going to steal more of your meal?”
“Not if I finish it first,” I quip, spearing a bite.
His laughter is warm and I can’t help but join in, the conversation ebbing and flowing easily for the rest of the evening.
As we finish up, I can’t shake the feeling that this man - despite the fame and the attention and the fan pages - is someone entirely different when the spotlight isn’t on him. Someone I could get to know.
And maybe, just maybe, someone I could let in.
∞∞∞
As the evening winds down, the restaurant’s intimate atmosphere feels like a cocoon, shielding us from the outside world. The glow of the string lights overhead softens everything, wrapping the night in an unexpected kind of magic.
Santi and I linger at the table even after the plates are cleared, the conversation ebbing into comfortable silences punctuated by shared smiles and fleeting glances. His hands have found mine, and his thumbs strokes easy circles over my skin as we talk in soft voices.
That electricity is still there and undeniably thrumming between us, but for now, I push it away; content to just enjoy his company.
Outside, the city hums quietly as we step onto the cobblestone street. The evening air is still warm, carrying the faint scent of orange blossoms. Santi walks me to his car, his hand brushing briefly against my lower back over the fabric of my dress as he gestures for me to cross in front of him.
The touch sends an unexpected jolt through me. I glance up at him to see if he’s equally as affected, but he’s already looking ahead.
“I had a great time tonight,” he says when we reach the passenger side door.
His voice is lower. Softer. Almost as though the night has coaxed out a different side of him.
“Me too,” I admit, my own voice quieter than usual.
The moment stretches between us as his gaze finds mine, and for a heartbeat, everything stops.
There’s a warmth in his green eyes, something unguarded and searching that makes my breath hitch and my pulse races as my gaze flickers to his lips.
His tongue dashes out to wet them, and I wonder if he’s going to lean in, if this is the moment where the night tilts toward something more. My heart thunders in my chest as his fingers graze the car door, but instead of moving closer, he breaks the spell with a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
He steps back, opening the door for me with a smile that feels both charming and restrained .
“Let’s get you home,” he says, his tone light again, as if the tension between us hadn’t been there.
Stunned into silence by the abrupt change in atmosphere, I slide into the passenger seat, the cool leather grounding me. My chest feels tight - like I’m holding onto something that’s already slipping away - but I let it go.
The drive back to my apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of the engine. Santi glances over at me a few times, his expression unreadable, and as I watch the city pass us by, I wonder what he’s thinking.
We pull up to my apartment building and the night feels charged. It's the kind of quiet that amplifies every sound: the click of the car door, the soft echo of our footsteps against the stone stairs.
Santi insists on walking me up to my apartment on the third floor, and I don’t argue, though my stomach drops and my heart races impossibly faster with every step.
I turn to thank him when we reach my door, but the words get caught in my throat as he steps closer. I have to tilt my head back in order to maintain eye contact with him, and his green eyes search mine in question.
Before I can overthink it, his warm, tanned hand brushes my cheek, his fingers feather-light against my skin.
“I had a great time tonight, Olivia” he says softly, his voice like a warm breeze as he repeats his words from earlier.
I lean in to his touch even as my breath hitches. “Me too,” I whisper.
For a second, I wonder whether he’ll leave me hanging like he did before.
But then he leans in, his lips capturing mine .
The kiss is slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second. After a beat or two, my hands instinctively raise to find purchase on his broad shoulders, using his muscular form to steady myself as the world seems to tilt slightly. His touch is firm but gentle as his hands move down to my waist, his warmth chasing away the coolness of the air-conditioned hallway.
When we finally pull apart, I’m breathless.
He smiles, his forehead resting briefly against mine.
“I should -” I start, but he cuts me off with another kiss.
I have to consciously stop myself from chasing his lips when he pulls back.
“Wait,” he says, his voice low as he reaches into his pocket for his phone. “Your number.”
Oh.
That must be a good sign - right?!
I bite down on my lip to hold back my triumphant smile as I take his phone and type it in before handing it back.
“There. Now you can stalk me properly,” I comment.
He chuckles, slipping his phone away. “I’ll save it for emergencies. Like when I need recommendations for more places to take you.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say. “I should probably go, though. Thank you again for such a lovely evening.”
Before I can push the door to a close, his hand stops it.
I look up, surprised.
“When can I see you again?” Santi asks, his tone light but his eyes earnest .
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” I say with a teasing smirk, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’ve got training all weekend,” he says, ignoring the jab, “but - how about Monday?”
I pause, pretending to think it over. I don’t want to seem too keen. “I’ll have to double check that I definitely don’t have plans, but I think Monday could work.”
His smile deepens, and before I can say anything else, he leans in for one more quick kiss, his lips brushing mine in a way that leaves me wanting more.
“Goodnight, Olivia,” he murmurs as he steps back, his hand lingering on the doorframe for a moment before he finally lets go.
“Goodnight, Santi,” I reply, watching as he heads back down the stairs.
I close the door, leaning against it as I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. My heart is still racing, my lips tingling from our kisses, and all I can do is smile.
Monday feels a long way away, but for now, I’m okay with waiting.