Page 17 of My Spanish Love Affair

Practical, I suppose; but still stylish, and perfect for a casual night out.

Back at my apartment, I spend more time than I’d like to admit getting ready. It’s silly, but I’m excited. This feels like a real step in the right direction - an opportunity to make some good, solid friendships with my colleagues - and I want to look the part.

I run my fingers through my long, blonde hair to smooth it out and add a pop of lipstick before checking my reflection in the mirror. Satisfied, I figure that I may as well treat myself to a glass of white wine in peace and quiet before I leave.

Chapter Eight

The bar we meet at is tucked away in one of Valencia’s cobblestone alleys. The inside is cute and welcoming, with low lighting, rustic wooden furniture, and music humming in the background.

Ana and Elena are already there along with a few others I’ve met during the week (but whose names I admittedly can’t remember), and I wave happily as I step inside and head over to them.

Drinks are ordered, and the conversation flows easily between the group. I find myself laughing more than I have in ages, and I’m almost reminded of how easy things were back in Madrid with my roommates.

There’s a different kind of relationship here, of course; but everyone seems to get along well enough, and as the night progresses, the group decides to head to another spot - this one livelier and fancier, too, with live entertainment and a rooftop terrace.

“Come on, Olivia,” Ana says, grabbing my hand. “You can’t say no to a dance!”

Reluctantly, I agree, though my feet are already starting to protest in the heels.

∞∞∞

It’s on the terrace that it happens.

I decided to come up here for some air (alright, to rest my aching feet) and was captivated by the view.

The city sprawls out below me, lights twinkling like stars against the inky sky. Despite the late hour, the early February air is still pleasant, and I’m more than content sipping my drink while leaning against the railing and letting the night wash over me.

It’s one of those rare, perfect moments when everything feels just right.

And then, someone brushes past me.

It’s the lightest nudge, but enough to pull me out of my reverie.

“Lo siento,” a deep, masculine voice says, and I turn to face the source of the apology.

The man standing before me is quite possibly the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He’s tall - easily six foot - with incredibly broad shoulders and an easy posture that speaks of confidence. His thick dark hair is slightly tousled and a brilliant contrast to his bright green eyes, and his tanned skin catches the warm glow of the terrace lights.

All of that said, it’s his smile that holds my attention. Wide, warm, and effortlessly charming.

“Oh. Ah - it’s fine,” I say, trying not to sound flustered by his appearance. “No worries.”

“You’re not from here,” he says, tilting his head slightly. His accent is unmistakably Spanish, rich and melodic.

“Is it that obvious?” I ask with a small laugh.

His smile broadens. “Maybe a little. The way you’re holding your drink like it’s a lifeline gave it away.”

“Oh. Not the thick British accent, then?” I counter.

He laughs deeply at that.

I try to calm myself down, I really do, but it’s just not happening. My heart is practically racing in my chest, and I swallow thickly as I look up at him.

He really does have the most beautiful green eyes that pop against the tone of his olive skin. The dark long-sleeved shirt that he’s wearing does absolutely nothing to detract from his admirable size, and I try to neutralise my expression as I realise his biceps are easily the size of my head.

If I don’t say something,now,then I’m going to end up just gawking at him like an idiot.

“I’m Olivia,” I say, extending my free hand.

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