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)
I’m still nervous that my naturally sarcastic sense of humour might get lost in translation, but my smile widens at the sound of Santi’s laughter.
“In my defence, I only found out the building, not the actual number of your apartment,” he says. “That's why I couldn’t actually come and get you personally.”
“Ah,” I say. “I thought you just didn’t want to take the stairs.”
“What, you think I’m scared of a few stairs?” he laughs.
It’s a ridiculous statement given that he must know I’ve looked into him and know what he does for a living. Still, I play along.
“I wouldn’t blame you,” I say. “I am on the third floor.”
“Oh wow,” he responds, laughter in his voice. “Well, now you say that…”
When we pull up to the restaurant, I’m surprised. It’s nothing like the glamorous venues I’d worried about. Instead, it’s a small, tucked-away spot - the kind of place you’d never find unless someone told you about it - and Santi manages to snag a parking space right outside.
“This is not what I expected,” I admit as he holds the door to the restaurant open for me.
“Good surprise or bad surprise?” he asks, one brow quirking in playful curiosity.
“Good,” I say quickly, glancing around at the traditional interior. “Definitely good.”
The mismatched wooden chairs and chalkboard menus give it a homey, unpretentious feel, and I observe the tension in my shoulders dissipate as we step further inside. We’re seated by a pretty waitress at a table near the window, where the last rays of sunlight filter through.
“So,” he says, leaning back in his chair as he picks up a menu, “what looks good to you?”
“I’m thinking the grilled fish,” I reply, still scanning the options in case there’s anything I’ve missed.
“Great choice,” he says. “Guess I’ll have to order something else. Can’t have us looking like copycats.”
I laugh, and the ice between us melts even further.
Our starting dishes arrive, and the conversation flows as easily as the drinks. We talk about my teaching job, the challenges of moving to a new country, and the odd quirks of learning Spanish given that it’s been a while since I practised.
“So,” I say, tilting my glass toward him, “you’re a bit of a mystery. I still feel like I know next to nothing about you.”
Santi smirks, setting down his fork. “Maybe I like being a mystery.”
“Or maybe you’re still avoiding the question,” I counter in a sing-song voice.
“Touché,” he smiles before he leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to tell me a secret. “Fine. I’m just a guy who likes rugby, good food, and spending time with his family.”
“That’s it? No dark secrets or wild stories?” I tease, narrowing my eyes playfully.
“Not tonight,” he says with a wink, his grin infectious. “I have to maintain an air of intrigue, no?”
“Convenient,” I reply, laughing. “Keeps you off the hook.”
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Maybe you’re just fishing for scandal. Should I be worried?”
“Not at all,” I say, feigning innocence. “I’m just... curious.”
“You are a curious little thing, aren’t you?” he smirks. My heart skips a beat at that. “Curiosity’s not a bad thing, though,” he continues, his tone softening. “It’s what brought you to Spain, right?”
I pause, his words striking a chord. “I suppose it is.”
A beat passes before Santi tilts his head, a mischievous spark lighting his eyes. “Speaking of curiosity... did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Do your research. Now that you know my name.”
His smirk is teasing, but there’s a challenge there, too. I feel heat rise to my cheeks as I set my glass down carefully.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” he repeats, leaning in again, his voice full of mock accusation. “That sounds suspiciously like a yes.”
“Okay, fine,” I admit, laughing softly. “I may have looked you up.”
He raises a dark brow at that. “And?”
“And… I didn’t expect it, of course,” I admit. “Lots of articles about games and awards. Some overly enthusiastic fan pages, too. But nothing too juicy.”
He laughs - a genuine, light sound - and his eyes crinkle at the corners. I can’t help but think of how handsome he is.
“Overly enthusiastic, huh?” he says. The comments seems to have tickled him, and I smile, too. “You should see the comments on my instagram.”
“Oh, I have,” I say, laughing as he shakes his head from side to side. “Apparently, you’re quite the heartthrob. There were literal debates over your best feature.”
“And what are your thoughts on that?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard, but I don’t want to seem phased. “Personally, I think the eyes win.”
It’s hardly a lie - those green eyes of his are just gorgeous.
“Good choice,” he says smoothly, his easy grin widening.
“But seriously,” I say, shifting the tone slightly, “it must be… weird. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but you just don’t seem like the type of guy who wants all that attention.”