Page 108 of My Spanish Love Affair

Everything is just as I left it, but I’m not the same.

I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers over the soft quilt my mum made for me years ago. My chest tightens as I think about how lost I feel, like a ship without an anchor.

What do I want?

I don’t have an answer yet, but as I finally lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, one thing is clear: hiding away and avoiding the world isn’t the solution.

I need to figure it out.

Because the longer I stay here, cocooned in the safety of home, the more it will undoubtedly feel like I’m losing myself - and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

Chapter Thirty-Three

"Olivia? You have a visitor."

My mother’s voice carries up the stairs, and I grumble in complaint, pulling the pillow over my face.

My head is pounding; a not-so-gentle reminder of last night’s wine-fueled heart-to-heart with Laura, and my body feels like it’s been weighed down with bricks.

The idea of leaving the cocoon of my bed is about as appealing as tackling a Monday morning exam unprepared.

“Olivia!” Mum calls again, her tone sharper this time.

“Coming,” I croak, my voice muffled by the pillow.

I push myself upright, wincing as the light streaming through the window hits me square in the face. Still dressed in the oversized pyjama shirt I borrowed from Mum - one of Dad’s old ones, soft from years of wear - I shuffle over to the door, tugging my hair into a haphazard bun as I go.

Who on earth would be visiting me here?

I trudge downstairs, my bare feet slapping against the cool wood floors. The smell of brewing tea wafts through the air, and for a brief moment, I wonder if Mum’s making me a cup. It will certainly help with the hangover.

But when I round the corner into the hallway, my heart nearlystops.

Santi.

He looks... well, he looks likehim.

Perfectly put together in dark jeans and a fitted black T-shirt that hugs his chest and arms just right. His green eyes are sharper than ever, their intensity softened slightly by the small, tentative smile on his lips. His dark hair is tousled as though he’s run his hand through it a few too many times, and he’s holding a takeaway cup of coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

“Hi,” he says, his voice warm but cautious.

I freeze in place, every thought I had evaporating instantly.

“What are you doing here?”

“Your mother let me in,” he replies, glancing toward the kitchen.

Mum steps into the hallway, her hands dusted with flour.

“He’s very polite,” she says, her voice lilting with approval. “Brought coffee and pastries. You might want to let him explain, love.”

“Mum...” I hiss, my cheeks heating as I shoot her a look.

She just gives me a knowing smile and disappears back into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Santi in the hallway.

“I had a feeling you would be here,” he says.

“Oh?” I respond, arching a brow. “Just like you had a feeling I’d be at the coffee shop? Or my workplace? Or my apartment building?”

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