Page 29 of My Spanish Love Affair

I’ve spent far too much time scrolling through Santi’s social media over the past few days, trying (and failing miserably) to figure him out. His posts are deceptively down-to-earth for someone with his apparent level of fame and following. There are pictures of family dinners where he’s grinning alongside his mother and siblings, charity events where he’s surrounded by beaming kids holding rugby balls, and snapshots of post-match celebrations where he’s clutching a trophy, mud-streaked but undeniably radiant.

Andhot.Can’t forget that.

All in all, it paints a picture of a man who is grounded, humble and thoughtful; but it doesn’t give me all that much to go off in terms of who hereallyis, to what his life is like beyond all of these carefully curated moments.

The tabloids, of course, are even more unhelpful. Most of the pieces I’ve come across are a mess of speculation and overly-dramatic headlines that are pure clickbait:“Santiago Ortiz Spotted with Mystery Woman—Who’s the Lucky Lady?”and“Inside the Private Life of Spain’s Rugby Star!”

Alright, so I may have clicked on one out of morbid curiosity. What’s a girl to do - especially when I’m trying to figure him out and get a better idea of who he is and why on earth he seems fixated on going on a date with me. Just one, though.

I’d found that it was a rehash of vague rumors and recycled quotes from unnamed sources, and I’d backed out of it almost immediately, my stomach twisting with unease. I’m definitely not cut out for this level of snooping: not only does reading that sort of stuff about him feel invasive, it also feels kind of creepy. Like I’m doing something that I shouldn’t.

Surprisingly, it’s the team’s official social media pages that have truly thrown me for a loop.

Their account is a mix of match highlights, behind-the-scenes snippets, and videos clearly designed to capitalize on the fact that their players aren’t just talented - they’re absurdly good-looking.

One video, set to a thumping bass-heavy track, opens with slow-motion shots of players warming up: bending over to stretch, their muscles taut and glistening in the sunlight; grabbing rugby balls with powerful, calloused hands; jogging across the field with an effortless swagger.

Another clip shows game highlights, the camera lingering just a little too long on players as they dive for the ball, their mud-streaked jerseys and shorts clinging to their bodies as they hit the ground. Santi appears during several clips, usually mid-play, his face a mix of focus and determination that’s somehow just as captivating as his smile.

It’s... a lot.

And if I’m being honest, it’s left me more flustered than informed.

The more I watch, the more it feels like I’m peering into a world I don’t belong to - a world where people like Santi exist, larger than life and completely unattainable.

So. I’m still no closer to knowing what this man wants from me. I do know that he has over one million instagram followers though, so there’s that.

I set down the lipstick tube, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are a little pinker than usual, and I tell myself it’s from the changing climate,notthe mental image of Santi covered in mud and flashing that infuriatingly charming grin at the camera.

Focus, Olivia.

Taking a deep breath, I smooth out the front of my dress and grab my bag. Whatever tonight brings, I need to stay grounded.

After all, I barely know this man.

A sharp honk from outside jolts me from my thoughts, and I instinctively know it’s him. My heart picks up its pace as I grab my handbag, hurriedly tossing in my lipstick, gloss, and phone before heading downstairs.

I am greeted by the glorious sight of Santi leaning casually against his sleek black sports car. The car might be a work of art in its own right, but it’s honestly nothing in comparison to the gorgeous man beside it.

His short-sleeve, white shirt is crisp and perfectly pressed, revealing those strong, tanned forearms that look like they belong to someone who spends as much time working out as they do playing rugby. They’re thick, tanned and scattered with dark hairs, and honestly, I’m here for it.

The top three buttons of his shirt are undone in a way that I’m learning he favours, teasing just enough to show a glimpse of his golden skin and the faint outline of his collarbone. His dark jeans hug his lean, athletic frame, fitting him so perfectly it’s hard not to wonder if they were tailored just for him.

The way he stands is effortlessly confident, with his weight shifted slightly to one side, arms loosely crossed. His long dark hair is styled just enough to look managed but not overly fussy, and the shadow of scruff on his jawline adds a rugged edge to his otherwise polished appearance.

Then there are his eyes - my most favourite feature of his. Those piercing green eyes meet mine the second I step outside, practically glowing in the early evening light. They pull me in as they lock onto mine, a flicker of something playful and warm dancing in their depths.

“You look amazing,” he says, his voice smooth and low, wrapping around me like a warm breeze.

He pushes off the car and takes a step forward, the slight swagger in his stride so natural it makes my pulse quicken. As he reaches me, he leans down and places a kiss on each of my cheeks, the brush of his lips against my skin sending a shiver down my spine.

At least I was somewhat expecting it this time, so his proximity doesn’t catch me off guard.

“Thank you,” I manage to say.

His cologne - that rich, woodsy scent with just a hint of spice -lingers in the air between us, intoxicating and utterly him. I’m tempted to ask him the name of it so that I never forget, but I figure it’s too weird of a question when we barely know one another.

He straightens and steps back, his gaze sweeping over me with an unmistakable sense of appreciation.

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