Chapter Eight
T he bar we meet at is tucked away in one of Valencia’s cobblestone alleys. The inside is cute and welcoming, with low lighting, rustic wooden furniture, and music humming in the background.
Ana and Elena are already there along with a few others I’ve met during the week (but whose names I admittedly can’t remember), and I wave happily as I step inside and head over to them.
Drinks are ordered, and the conversation flows easily between the group. I find myself laughing more than I have in ages, and I’m almost reminded of how easy things were back in Madrid with my roommates.
There’s a different kind of relationship here, of course; but everyone seems to get along well enough, and as the night progresses, the group decides to head to another spot - this one livelier and fancier, too, with live entertainment and a rooftop terrace.
“Come on, Olivia,” Ana says, grabbing my hand. “You can’t say no to a dance!”
Reluctantly, I agree, though my feet are already starting to protest in the heels.
∞∞ ∞
It’s on the terrace that it happens.
I decided to come up here for some air ( alright, to rest my aching feet ) and was captivated by the view.
The city sprawls out below me, lights twinkling like stars against the inky sky. Despite the late hour, the early February air is still pleasant, and I’m more than content sipping my drink while leaning against the railing and letting the night wash over me.
It’s one of those rare, perfect moments when everything feels just right.
And then, someone brushes past me.
It’s the lightest nudge, but enough to pull me out of my reverie.
“Lo siento,” a deep, masculine voice says, and I turn to face the source of the apology.
The man standing before me is quite possibly the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He’s tall - easily six foot - with incredibly broad shoulders and an easy posture that speaks of confidence. His thick dark hair is slightly tousled and a brilliant contrast to his bright green eyes, and his tanned skin catches the warm glow of the terrace lights.
All of that said, it’s his smile that holds my attention. Wide, warm, and effortlessly charming.
“Oh. Ah - it’s fine,” I say, trying not to sound flustered by his appearance. “No worries.”
“You’re not from here,” he says, tilting his head slightly. His accent is unmistakably Spanish, rich and melodic.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask with a small laugh.
His smile broadens. “Maybe a little. The way you’re holding your drink like it’s a lifeline gave it away. ”
“Oh. Not the thick British accent, then?” I counter.
He laughs deeply at that.
I try to calm myself down, I really do, but it’s just not happening. My heart is practically racing in my chest, and I swallow thickly as I look up at him.
He really does have the most beautiful green eyes that pop against the tone of his olive skin. The dark long-sleeved shirt that he’s wearing does absolutely nothing to detract from his admirable size, and I try to neutralise my expression as I realise his biceps are easily the size of my head.
If I don’t say something, now, then I’m going to end up just gawking at him like an idiot.
“I’m Olivia,” I say, extending my free hand.
Oh, for fuck sakes. A handshake?! Really?!
“Santiago,” he replies, taking my hand in his much larger one. His firm grip gives a further inkling of how strong he must be, and his touch lingers for a little longer than necessary. “Although my friends call me Santi.”
“Santi,” I repeat, testing out the sound of it on my tongue.
Something unfamiliar flashes in his lovely green eyes, and I clear my throat as I attempt to keep the conversation light.
“So, Santi. Are you in the habit of bumping into strangers on terraces?”
What a way to break the ice, Olivia!
“Only the ones who look like they might have interesting stories to tell,” he smirks.
“Oh really?” I say, a little surprised by his statement. “Well, what makes you think I have interesting stories?”
“Because you’re here,” he says simply, gesturing to the terrace around us. “Most people are inside, enjoying the party. But you…”
He pauses, and I raise an encouraging eyebrow.
“I…” I say, dragging out the sound in what I hope is a teasing prompt.
He grins, detecting the soft playfulness in my tone. “You look like you’re still figuring it all out.”
I take a sip of my drink.
Huh. He’s… perceptive.
“Well, you’re not exactly wrong,” I admit. “I actually moved here last week, so I am very much in the process of ‘figuring it all out’.”
“A new adventure, then,” he says.
He shuffles ever so slightly closer, and my treacherous heart practically skips a beat in excitement.
“So, Olivia . What brought you to Valencia?”
The sound of him saying my name in his deep voice with that lovely, thick accent is so undeniably sexy.
Still, I hesitate, not wanting to dive into the whole story of my breakup and impulsive decision to leave the UK.
“Let’s just say I needed a change,” I say instead.
Santi nods as though he understands completely. “Change is good,” he comments. “It keeps life interesting. Like this, right now. Meeting you. That’s something I didn’t expect.”
I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks.
Ah, Spanish men: ever so charming.
No wonder Sarah got pregnant so quickly!
“What about you?” I ask, eager to shift the focus. “What’s your story?”
He leans casually against the railing, his smile turning playful as he turns his head to face me. There’s a playful smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
“Oh, mine’s not that interesting,” he says with a wave of one of his large hands. “You wouldn’t want to hear it.”
I’m immediately intrigued by his deflection.
“Try me,” I challenge. “I’m pretty good at deciding what’s interesting and what’s not.”
“Alright,” he says with a chuckle, leaning casually against the railing. “Let’s just say… I keep busy.”
“That’s so incredibly vague,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest before resting them on the railing. “What aren’t you telling me? Oh my god - do you moonlight as a secret agent or something?!”
He chuckles again, shaking his head from side to side. His smile is dazzling, and his side profile allows me a better view of his neatly-cut stubble.
He’s so perfect, it’s practically unfair.
“Not quite. Though I’d make a terrible spy,” he says. “Too tall, too wide and too heavy. Not a good combination for sneaking around.”
“I can see that,” I say, sizing him up with a smirk. “You’d be terrible at blending in.”
There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes that suggests he’s more than receptive to my light flirting, but he doesn’t offer any more details or insight into himself. Instead, he shifts the conversation back to me.
“And what about you, Olivia? What’s the grand plan now you’re here? ”
I glance out at the city lights, suddenly feeling more self-aware under his gaze.
“Honestly… I don’t have much of a plan,” I admit. “I needed to get away, and Spain felt as good as anywhere for a fresh start. I started off in Madrid, but I was offered an opportunity that I really couldn’t refuse teaching English in one of the local secundaria’s. But beyond that…”
I trail off, shrugging my shoulders.
“Well, no plan means no limits,” Santi says with finality. “You could end up anywhere, doing anything.”
Or any one …
Holy crap - where on earth did that come from?!
“Or I could end up back home in a few months, eating beans on toast and regretting everything,” I say, trying to distract myself from my filthy thoughts.
After all, there’s nothing sexy about beans on toast.
“Somehow, I don’t see that happening,” he says, his voice confident. “You don’t seem like the type to give up that easily.”
A strange flutter rushes through me at the way he speaks as though he actually knows me, like he’s already figured me out.
“Bold of you to assume the type of person I am,” I deflect, trying to play it cool.
The last thing I want to do is give anything away. After all, this man is unfairly stunning. He probably has women fawning all over him left, right and centre, and I don’t want to boost his ego any further by doing the same.
“On first impressions, of course,” he says. “Tell me, what type do I strike you as?”
“Hmm,” I say, raising a finger to my chin and pretending to think for a moment. “The smooth-talking charmer type. You know, ones who bump into women on terraces for fun.”
He places a hand onto his broad chest. “Wow. You wound me, Olivia.”
We laugh in sync, and the sound surprises me.
Other than Ben - who was very strictly a friend - I can’t recall the last time that I got along so well with a man.
( That includes my ex-boyfriend ).
Before I can say anything else, Ana appears at my side from seemingly nowhere, grabbing my arm tightly.
“Olivia! There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Come on - dance floor. Now.”
She’s using her best teacher voice and not giving me much wiggle room to argue with her. While I’m admittedly a little disappointed to part ways with this ridiculously handsome stranger, the last thing I’m going to do is sell-out my new friends and colleagues for a man I’ve just met.
So, I turn back to Santi and shoot him an apologetic smile.
“Looks like my time’s up,” I say.
“For now,” he responds, flashing me a confident smile.
As Ana pulls me away, I glance back over my shoulder to see him still leaning against the railing, watching me.
His smile lingers. I can’t help but wonder what he’s hiding -
And why I already want to find out.