With Love Collection

Prologue

The summer sun is shining high in a cloudless sky, casting a warm glow on my shoulders. Waves swoosh and tumble, rolling their way onto the sand. In the sea, a bunch of children are at play—laughing, splashing, bobbing around on inflatable crocodiles.

I can hear the hustle and bustle of the packed beachside patio behind me, where my grandparents, my Abuela and Abuelo, are serving the guests their orders.

A few metres away, two boys are playing with a soccer ball.

I sneak a few hidden glances at their skills as they juggle the ball with their feet, never letting it touch the ground.

I’ve always wanted to be able to do that, just like David Beckham or my Dutch hero Dennis Bergkamp.

Last time I tried, I crashed the ball through a stained glass window.

It landed in my neighbour’s mixing bowl, ruining her cake batter.

She got so mad that I burst into tears and I haven’t touched a soccer ball since.

The boys look alike: tall, suntanned skin, tousled dark hair.

The slightly younger boy keeps looking over, seemingly interested in the sandcastle I’ve been building all afternoon.

I stare at my creation, taking pride in this feat of engineering that’s beginning to look like it was plucked from a Disney movie.

I add a little more sand to the top and mould it into a stunning tower.

This is going to be even bigger than I had planned.

I included the castle moat that I've filled with bucketfuls of clear sea water. There’s even a frustrated shrimp swimming laps around the castle.

I named him Captain Crustacean, the horrible sea monster who’s keeping the handsome prince from reaching the princess held captive in the tower I just built.

It’s magnificent, Eva.

I look up. My Abuela is blocking the sun, causing a shadow to fall over my castle.

She’s holding a glass of lemonade in one hand as she wipes the other hand on her apron.

Her gentle brown eyes take in the bridge I constructed over the moat.

It needs a bit more work before it can support the prince and his overweight white horse.

Tourists are having the time of their lives and the sounds of their joyful chatter and laughter drift through the air. Abuela bends down to hand me the glass and I gratefully take a few greedy gulps. Her homemade lemonade is the best. It’s sweet and refreshing and it tastes like summer.

Thank you. I lick my lips after swallowing the last drops.

She grins and takes the empty glass from me. Just come up to the restaurant if you want any more, okay? She kisses the crown of my head. I’m going back to help Abuelo. Let us know when your castle’s ready? I absolutely must get a picture of this stunning work.

Her compliment makes me smile so wide that my cheeks begin to ache. I’m so proud I could burst. She gives me an exaggerated wink, then turns around to head back to the patio, her dark hair and grey highlights shimmering in the afternoon sunlight.

I shift my focus back to my sandcastle and start to decorate the pointy roofs with some shells I found on the beach earlier today.

Creating the perfect pattern in the sand requires my full concentration.

I have just about finished the heart shape when a violent spray of sand hits me in the face.

Sand fills my mouth and makes my eyes water.

When I open them, though, I realize it’s not just sand causing my tears.

I feel my bottom lip start to tremble as I inspect the remnants of my castle, completely razed to the ground by a red and blue soccer ball with FC Barcelona printed on it.

Andrés! I hear the rebuke coming from my right. I look over at the two boys and notice the older one is staring at me with a devilish grin while the youngest one gives him an angry look. Look what you’ve done!

Oops, says the boy called Andrés, who is slowly making his way over to me.

I blink and furiously attempt to wipe away the sand and my tears.

I try as hard as I can to avoid looking at the boy getting closer and closer to me.

I can’t let him see me crying. I can’t let him see me crying, dammit.

A few people furrow their brows as they glance our way.

Andrés squats down, picks up the soccer ball from the castle ruins, and continues to stare at me with an amused look on his face.

His green eyes sparkle with glee as he opens his mouth to speak.

How old are you? he whispers. Are you seriously crying right now?

His comment only worsens the tremble in my bottom lip. You did that on purpose, I say in a shaky voice. It comes out so quiet that I have to wonder if he even heard me.

Andrés cocks his head and arches an eyebrow. I was just doing you a favour. The whole thing looked ridiculous.

I swallow hard in an effort to clear the massive lump in my throat. What a...a... mean boy. A huge sob escapes from my throat.

Andrés, you’re such an asshole! The younger boy comes running up to us. He’s wearing dark green swimming trunks and has a shark tooth necklace hanging from his neck. He’s so cool. There’s compassion in his brown eyes. Apologize.

Andrés snorts in contempt and shakes his head. As he stands up, he throws me one final look. No thanks. I have more important things to do. He pivots and makes his way toward the beachside patio, bouncing the ball between his feet and knees as he goes.

Defeated, I slump my shoulders as I survey the wreckage. It only took two seconds to completely destroy what I’d spent four entire hours working on.

Don’t let him get to you, the boy says, staring angrily at Andrés. It was an awesome castle. He’s just jealous.

I’m still shaking. I just don’t get how someone can be that mean for no reason.

The boy looks at me like he’s not quite sure what else he can do to make me stop crying.

He rakes his fingers through his hair, awkwardly taps his hands against his legs, and eventually sits down beside me.

Grabbing a handful of sand, he shapes it into a bump.

I furrow my brow as I contemplate the tiny hill, then give him an inquiring look.

It’ll be finished in no time with both of us working on it. He gives me an encouraging half-smile. I notice his kind brown eyes and incredibly long eyelashes. There’s a little cut on his chin that’s not quite healed. I hesitate for a moment, then wipe away the last of my tears and follow his lead.

We work diligently in the bright summer sunshine.

It doesn’t take the boy long to prove himself an excellent construction worker, executing my every instruction to the letter.

This castle is shaping up to be even more spectacular than the last one, although I’d never admit that out loud.

Sweat beads on his forehead as he presses one final shell into place on the roof before looking at me with an expectant twinkle in his eye.

I feel my lips curve into a radiant smile, despite the sandy sting that still lingers in my eyes.

Captain Crustacean miraculously survived the palace attack and is back to swimming frantic laps around the moat.

Thank you, I say, patting the sand from my hands.

The salt of my dried up tears is pulling at my skin and my eyes still feel a bit scratchy, but I’m in a much better mood than I was a few hours ago.

I wipe the sweat from my face with a deep sigh.

I’m hot. Boiling hot. After working so hard under the relentless Ibiza sun, all I want is to run straight into the cool water.

I look longingly at the clear blue water, but my fear of the currents makes me turn my head.

The boy keeps his eyes trained on my face for a moment, before standing up and reaching out to me.

Are you coming? he asks, nodding at the sea. We worked hard enough to deserve a swim, right? I look from his outstretched hand to the waves rolling onto the beach and I swallow. I rub my hand back and forth across my chest as I relive the stinging feeling of water in my lungs, then shake my head.

No, but thanks anyway, I reply through a cautious smile. The boy looks confused, his brow all scrunched. My cheeks flush a deep red, so I turn my attention to the sandcastle and begin to straighten out the seashells on the roof.

Why not? he asks, sounding surprised. There’s no way you’re not boiling hot. You’re sweating your face off.

I blink a few times, feeling embarrassed, then wipe the dampness from my forehead.

I ummm... I bite my lip. I’m scared. Those last words come out as a whisper, so quiet that I hope he didn’t even hear them.

I shift my eyes toward the ground. He must think I’m a coward.

What eleven-year-old is too scared to swim?

The crease between his eyebrows grows deeper, giving him a puzzled look.

You...you don’t know how to swim?

Of course I know how to swim, I reply defensively.

But...you’re too...scared to swim? he attempts to clarify.

I awkwardly brush some sand from my legs and nod.

Why? He looks at me like it’s the weirdest thing he’s ever heard. Did you get stung by a jellyfish or something?

I snort. That’s not scary. I would never stay out of the water because of a jellyfish, I say with all the conviction I can muster.

I draw my knees up to my chin and stare into the frothy surf, wondering if I should tell the boy what happened.

He did just help me with my castle and somehow I feel like I can trust him.

I let out a shaky sigh and wiggle my toes through the soft sand.