Page 27 of My Spanish Love Affair

I step out of the building and head toward the main school gates, my thoughts still miles away.

I’m so lost in my own head that I nearly walk straight past him.

I stop short, my breath catching as I spot a familiar figure leaning casually against the low wall just past the entrance. He’s wearing that bloody baseball cap again, his hands tucked into his pockets and one ankle crossed over the other, exuding an effortless kind of cool that feels entirely unfair.

“Santi?” I say, my voice betraying my surprise.

He straightens up, flashing me that signature grin that’s equal parts charming and infuriating.

“Hey, profesora,” he says, his tone as easy as his smile - as if his presence here is the most normal, natural thing in the world. “Thought I might find you here.”

I stare at him - an unfortunately common theme between us - torn between disbelief and confusion.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“Just passing by,” he says with a casual shrug, though the glint in his eye tells me otherwise.

“Right,” I say slowly, dragging out the word.

I don’t believe for a second that he wasjust passing by.

Meeting at the bar? That was just one of those things.

Running into him at the café last week? Maybe that was a coincidence.

But showing up outside my school? This feels deliberate.

“I thought I’d see if I could catch you. I wanted to ask you something,” Santi continues.

My mind swirls with questions, but I push them aside, crossing my arms over my chest.

“What did you want to ask?”

“Have dinner with me,” he says, the words falling from his lips with an easy confidence that somehow manages not to sound pushy.

“That’s not a question.”

“And that’s not an answer,” he counters, arching a brow.

I glance around, suddenly hyper-aware of the possibility of lingering students or teachers. The last thing I need is for someone to see me standing here, chatting with local celebrity Santiago Ortiz of all people.

“I don’t know...” I say, my voice trailing off.

“It’s just dinner,” he says, his tone softening. “No pressure.”

There’s a sincerity in his voice that makes me hesitate.

I glance at him again, taking in the details I’ve been trying not to notice. The sharp angle of his jaw, the way the sunlight catches the olive tone of his skin, the way his green eyes seem to hold just the faintest trace of amusement…

And then there’s the warmth in his expression; something gentler, less guarded than the confident charm he seems to wear like armour.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” I say finally.

“Why not?”

“Because,” I say, searching for an excuse, “I barely know you. And... and you’reyou.”

His grin softens, and he takes a small step closer, his voice low but steady.

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