Page 32 of My Spanish Love Affair

“That’s… kind of amazing,” I smile.

“Amazing? You’re kidding me. Look at you,” he says. “You picked up your life and moved to a whole new country. That’s what I’d call amazing.”

I shrug. “I needed a fresh start.”

“And? Is it working?”

I pause, considering his question. “Yeah. It is. Slowly, but it is.”

Santi studies me for a moment, his gaze steady.

“You’re very brave, Olivia.”

I blink at his sincerity, his words catching me off guard. There’s a softness in his tone, a quiet assurance that I wasn’t expecting.

It feels like he sees something in me I can’t quite see in myself, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say.

“Thanks,” I manage, my voice quieter than I intended. I attempt a smile, but the corners of my mouth don’t lift the way I want them to. Instead, I glance down at the table, fiddling with the stem of my wine glass. “I don’t…feelvery brave most of the time.”

“Well, you are,” he says simply, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering.

The weight of his words hangs in the air, and I look up at him, surprised by the depth in his expression. His green eyes are warm - gentle, even - and for a second, everything around us fades into the background.

“Thank you,” I say again, softer this time.

A tiny knot forms in my chest. I’m taken aback by how sweetly spoken he is, how his words have somehow nudged open a door I thought I’d closed tightly after everything that happened back home.

Before I can dwell too long on the moment, our main courses arrive, breaking the stillness. I take a breath, glad for the distraction, and dive into my meal with renewed energy.

The conversation shifts to lighter topics, and I let myself laugh at his jokes, grateful for the way he effortlessly fills the space with humour and charm.

I offer him some of my grilled fish, and he feeds me some of his meal in return, grinning knowingly when my eyes drop to a close at how good it tastes.

But even as we chat and tease each other, his earlier words linger in the back of my mind, warming a part of me I hadn’t realised was still cold.

“So,” I say between bites, “is it true that rugby players eat, like, 5,000 calories a day?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. But close. Why - worried I’m going to steal more of your meal?”

“Not if I finish it first,” I quip, spearing a bite.

His laughter is warm and I can’t help but join in, the conversation ebbing and flowing easily for the rest of the evening.

As we finish up, I can’t shake the feeling that this man - despite the fame and the attention and the fan pages - is someone entirely different when the spotlight isn’t on him. Someone I could get to know.

And maybe, just maybe, someone I could let in.

∞∞∞

As the evening winds down, the restaurant’s intimate atmosphere feels like a cocoon, shielding us from the outside world. The glow of the string lights overhead softens everything, wrapping the night in an unexpected kind of magic.

Santi and I linger at the table even after the plates are cleared, the conversation ebbing into comfortable silences punctuatedby shared smiles and fleeting glances. His hands have found mine, and his thumbs strokes easy circles over my skin as we talk in soft voices.

That electricity is still there and undeniably thrumming between us, but for now, I push it away; content to just enjoy his company.

Outside, the city hums quietly as we step onto the cobblestone street. The evening air is still warm, carrying the faint scent of orange blossoms. Santi walks me to his car, his hand brushing briefly against my lower back over the fabric of my dress as he gestures for me to cross in front of him.

The touch sends an unexpected jolt through me. I glance up at him to see if he’s equally as affected, but he’s already looking ahead.

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