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)
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… well, stare.
A slow, confident smile tugs at his lips - the kind that seems to say he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.