Page 25 of My Spanish Love Affair

“Good to know,” I say, trying not to look too pleased with myself. “Should I write that down somewhere?”

“Probably,” he says, grinning. “You might need it.”

From where we’re both leaning towards each other over the table, our hands brush slightly, and I just about manage to refrain from physically jumping as a jolt flies through my body. My eyes flicker between his large, warm hands and his face, and my abdomen clenches when I notice his gaze briefly drop to my lips.

The banter between us might be light and easy, but there’s an underlying electricity here that I can’t ignore.

“Anyway,” Santi says. The sound of him speaking again breaks me from the spell I’m under. “I should get going. Your lessons aren’t going to plan themselves.”

I nod as he moves to stand, unable to stop my gaze from wandering all over his broad body as he towers over me.

“Good luck,profesora.”

“Thanks,” I say. “And Santi - for the record, I’m definitelynotstalking you.”

“Sure, sure,” he teases, tipping his cap. “Whatever you say, Olivia.”

I watch him make his way to the main door and step out into the afternoon air, and as he disappears from view, I can’t help but smile to myself.

Santiago Ortiz.

There’s something about him that’s impossible to ignore.

Chapter Eleven

I’m still replaying my conversation with Santi when I get home later that afternoon.

Part of me is irritated by this whole thing. After everything that happened, I told myself I wasn’t going to do this - had sworn off even having a brief fling whilst here in Spain - but no matter how hard I try to resist him, Santi has a way of drawing me in.

Now that I’m in the privacy of my own apartment, curiosity gets the better of me, and after dropping my bag down by the door, I reach for my laptop and settle down on the couch.

“Alright, Santiago Ortiz,” I mutter as I open a search engine. “Let’s see who you really are.”

The moment I hit ‘search,’ dozens of images and articles flood the screen, a cascade of snapshots that make my heart leap into my throat, and my jaw drops as I click on the first link.

Santiago Ortiz. Star player for Spain’s national rugby team.

My brain doesn’t quite catch up to fully understand what I’m reading.

Words likemulti-time league champion.Beloved by fans. Hailed as one of the greatest athletes of his generation.

I scroll down on auto-pilot, and the first image that catches my eye is of him mid-game, red jersey streaked with dirt, his faceset in intense concentration as he charges with a rugby ball in his arms. The next picture shows him hoisting a glittering trophy above his head, a jubilant grin on his face, surrounded by his teammates in a confetti-filled stadium.

What the actual fuck?!

The article goes on and on, showing more photos of him on and off the field, including a more polished shot of Santi in a tailored suit at a charity gala, all sharp lines and effortless sophistication.

And then I seeit.

A shirtless magazine cover that makes my stomach do a little flip.

His muscular frame is on full display, every defined line and ripple of his tanned, broad chest and abs glowing under the professional lighting.

The caption reads:"Spain’s Golden Boy: Behind the Fame with Santiago Ortiz."

“Oh my God,” I whisper, scrolling faster.

The articles list his accolades, his stats, his contributions to various charities, and even a few quotes from teammates about his leadership on and off the field. But of course, there’s also a tabloid streak - rumours about past relationships, glimpses of him attending glamorous events with beautiful women on his arm, and the occasional headline speculating about his private life.

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