Page 135 of My Spanish Love Affair

She pulls me into a gentle hug, her slender arms wrapping around my shoulders, and after a beat or two, I relax into the embrace. When she pulls back, her gaze flickers between Santi and I, and I can tell she’s studying our connection with curiosity.

“You two make a beautiful couple,” she says confidently.

I feel my cheeks heat. “Thank you,” I reply softly, the weight of her approval already making me feel more at home.

She leads us inside with enthusiastic waves of her hands, andI can’t help but think of how the living room is a perfect reflection of the woman who welcomed us in: warm, inviting and filled with life.

Framed photographs line the walls and clutter the wooden shelves, each one a glimpse into Santi’s past. There are baby pictures - one where he’s chubby-cheeked and grinning, another where he’s barely a toddler, clutching a ball that’s nearly as big as he is. A few faded black-and-white portraits must be of older relatives, and then there are more recent shots of Santi with his teammates and a picture of him with his mother at what looks like an awards ceremony, both beaming with pride.

The furniture is simple but well-loved. A plush sofa sits against one wall, draped with a handmade crocheted blanket, and a low wooden coffee table is stacked with magazines and a small bowl of candies.

It’s not lavish or grand, but it doesn’t need to be. I glance over at Santi, watching the way his shoulders relax the moment he steps inside.

She leads us through the living room and into the kitchen, a space that feels just as warm and inviting as the rest of the house. The walls are a soft, sun-bleached yellow, and the scent of simmering spices and home-cooked warmth lingers in the air.

Copper pots and pans hang from hooks above the stove, and a small, well-used radio hums softly in the background.

The kitchen table is a sturdy wooden piece, slightly worn but full of character, and Santi’s mother instructs us both to sit down at it. She moves around the kitchen with effortless grace before placing a bowl of glossy green and black olives in the center of the table along with a loaf of crusty bread, a small dish of golden olive oil and a selection of cheese that looks perfectly aged.

Santi reaches for a piece of bread almost instinctively, but his mother swats his hand away with a sharp flick of a dishtowel.

“Ay, niño - at least let me finish setting the table first!”

I can’t help but laugh as Santi leans back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh.

“Mamá, tengo hambre,” he complains, his voice teasingly dramatic.

She clicks her tongue but is clearly amused, setting down a glass of deep red wine in front of each of us.

“You’re always hungry,” she retorts before turning to me with a warm smile. “He was like this as a boy, always running into the kitchen before dinner and trying to sneak bites when he thought I wasn’t looking.”

Santi rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, instead nudging my knee under the table.

“She exaggerates,” he murmurs.

The mischievous glint in his green eyes tells me otherwise.

I take a sip of the wine, savoring the rich, velvety flavor.

“This is amazing,” I say, glancing between them. “I think I could get used to this.”

His mother beams, pleased, before sitting down across from us. “Good. You are always welcome here,mi niña.”

The simple words send a warmth through me that has nothing to do with the wine.

As we begin to eat, she keeps glancing at me, her eyes full of curiosity.

“So, Olivia,” she says, breaking the comfortable silence, “how did you and Santi meet?”

I glance over at Santi, who is watching me with a small smile, clearly interested in how I’ll tell the story. There’s no way he hasn’t told his mother about it already - I smile back, feeling a little bit shy but eager to share.

“Well,” I begin, taking a deep breath, “we met in Valencia. A bit of a coincidence, really - on a rooftop bar, of all places. And then we kept meeting one another.”

His mother raises an eyebrow, clearly interested. “Tell me - what happened?”

“Well, first we saw each other outside of a restaurant in the city - although we didn’t actually speak. We were both with friends, and Santi was just arriving as I was leaving. And then I had gone to a cafe to do some lesson planning when I bumped into Santi again - that time, we did talk for a while. And then, one day when I wasn’t expecting it at all, Santi turned up at the school I work at to ask me on a date.”

Santi’s mother smiles knowingly, her eyes twinkling. “I can see why you agreed. My son has always had a way of drawing people in.”

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