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)
He presses a quick kiss to each of my cheeks, his stubble brushing against my skin. His cologne lingers between us, warm and woodsy, and my knees feel just the tiniest bit unsteady.
Ridiculous.
“Friday at seven,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, his green eyes holding mine for just a moment longer than necessary. “Don’t stand me up, profesora.”
A playful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and before I can even think of a response, he straightens up and takes a step back.
“See you soon, Olivia,” he says, his tone easy but full of intent.
I stand there, rooted to the spot, as he turns and heads in the opposite direction, his stride casual yet purposeful. It’s then that I notice his black sports car - anything but discrete - practically glistening under the Spanish sun. He climbs in, and with one last glance in my direction, he gives a small wave before pulling away from the curb.
The faint hum of the engine fades into the distance, but the warmth of his touch and the press of his lips against my cheeks linger far, far longer.
I exhale slowly, my heart racing as I finally will my feet to move, heading in the direction of my humble little home.
I try not to think about him as I walk, truly I do, but it’s no use. My imagination swirls as I replay our conversation over and over, romanticising it a little more each time.
More than anything, I can’t quite believe what I’ve just agreed to.
Friday night. Dinner with Santiago Ortiz.
What on earth am I getting myself into?
Chapter Twelve
The 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 sundress that 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.