Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
The furniture is simple but well-loved. A plush sofa sits against one wall, draped with a handmade crocheted blanket, and a low wooden coffee table is stacked with magazines and a small bowl of candies.
It’s not lavish or grand, but it doesn’t need to be. I glance over at Santi, watching the way his shoulders relax the moment he steps inside.
She leads us through the living room and into the kitchen, a space that feels just as warm and inviting as the rest of the house. The walls are a soft, sun-bleached yellow, and the scent of simmering spices and home-cooked warmth lingers in the air.
Copper pots and pans hang from hooks above the stove, and a small, well-used radio hums softly in the background.
The kitchen table is a sturdy wooden piece, slightly worn but full of character, and Santi’s mother instructs us both to sit down at it. She moves around the kitchen with effortless grace before placing a bowl of glossy green and black olives in the center of the table along with a loaf of crusty bread, a small dish of golden olive oil and a selection of cheese that looks perfectly aged.
Santi reaches for a piece of bread almost instinctively, but his mother swats his hand away with a sharp flick of a dishtowel.
“Ay, niño - at least let me finish setting the table first!”
I can’t help but laugh as Santi leans back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh.
“Mamá, tengo hambre,” he complains, his voice teasingly dramatic.
She clicks her tongue but is clearly amused, setting down a glass of deep red wine in front of each of us.
“You’re always hungry,” she retorts before turning to me with a warm smile. “He was like this as a boy, always running into the kitchen before dinner and trying to sneak bites when he thought I wasn’t looking.”
Santi rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, instead nudging my knee under the table.
“She exaggerates,” he murmurs.
The mischievous glint in his green eyes tells me otherwise.
I take a sip of the wine, savoring the rich, velvety flavor.
“This is amazing,” I say, glancing between them. “I think I could get used to this.”
His mother beams, pleased, before sitting down across from us. “Good. You are always welcome here, mi niña.”
The simple words send a warmth through me that has nothing to do with the wine.
As we begin to eat, she keeps glancing at me, her eyes full of curiosity.
“So, Olivia,” she says, breaking the comfortable silence, “how did you and Santi meet?”
I glance over at Santi, who is watching me with a small smile, clearly interested in how I’ll tell the story. There’s no way he hasn’t told his mother about it already - I smile back, feeling a little bit shy but eager to share.
“Well,” I begin, taking a deep breath, “we met in Valencia. A bit of a coincidence, really - on a rooftop bar, of all places. And then we kept meeting one another.”
His mother raises an eyebrow, clearly interested. “Tell me - what happened?”
“Well, first we saw each other outside of a restaurant in the city - although we didn’t actually speak. We were both with friends, and Santi was just arriving as I was leaving. And then I had gone to a cafe to do some lesson planning when I bumped into Santi again - that time, we did talk for a while. And then, one day when I wasn’t expecting it at all, Santi turned up at the school I work at to ask me on a date.”
Santi’s mother smiles knowingly, her eyes twinkling. “I can see why you agreed. My son has always had a way of drawing people in.”
The conversation continues effortlessly, with Santi and his mother exchanging playful teasing and laughter. I feel myself relaxing more with each passing minute, grateful for how welcoming she has been.
His mother is wonderful, and reminds me of my own in so many ways.
Santi was right: I had nothing to worry about.
∞∞∞
The golden glow of the setting sun spills across the front of the house, casting long, dappled shadows over the quiet street. Santi’s mother stands in the doorway, her expression filled with quiet affection as she looks between us.
“I’m so glad you brought her here, Santi,” she says, her voice gentle but sure. “You both make a lovely pair.”
Santi’s hand tightens around mine, his thumb brushing over my skin in a silent message. “Thanks, mamá. That means a lot.”
Before I can react, she turns to me and pulls me into a warm embrace. It’s unexpected, but I melt into it. Her arms tighten around me, her hand smoothing over my back like she’s memorising the moment.
“Take care of my son, Olivia,” she whispers into my ear. “He’s a good man.”
Emotion rises in my throat, sudden and overwhelming. I swallow past it and nod, my voice soft but steady.