Page 30 of My Spanish Love Affair

“You ready?” he asks, his lips curving into that familiar smile that’s both infuriatingly cocky and disarmingly sincere.

Before I can respond, he walks me around the car, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. The gesture is subtle but steady, grounding me as much as it’s sending my heart into overdrive.

He opens the passenger door with an easy motion, gesturing for me to get in. The interior of the car is just as luxurious as the exterior; with plush leather seats that feel buttery soft under my fingertips and the faint, clean scent of something expensive.

I slide into the seat, the cool leather against my skin a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from him.

“Thank you,” I say again, glancing up at him as he closes the door gently behind me.

He rounds the front of the car, his movements fluid and confident, and when he slides into the driver’s seat, he flashes me another grin that makes my stomach flip.

“This is - ah. Quite the ride,” I comment awkwardly.

“It gets the job done.”

The drive through the city is serene, its charm only heightened by the golden hour. The streets are alive with the buzz of people out for the evening, and I feel myself relaxing further with each second that passes.

“You know, I never gave you my address,” I say. “Should I be worried, stalker?”

I’m still nervous that my naturally sarcastic sense of humour might get lost in translation, but my smile widens at the sound of Santi’s laughter.

“In my defence, I only found out the building, not the actual number of your apartment,” he says. “That's why I couldn’t actually come and get you personally.”

“Ah,” I say. “I thought you just didn’t want to take the stairs.”

“What, you think I’m scared of a few stairs?” he laughs.

It’s a ridiculous statement given that he must know I’ve looked into him and know what he does for a living. Still, I play along.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” I say. “I am on the third floor.”

“Oh wow,” he responds, laughter in his voice. “Well, now you say that…”

When we pull up to the restaurant, I’m surprised. It’s nothing like the glamorous venues I’d worried about. Instead, it’s a small, tucked-away spot - the kind of place you’d never find unless someone told you about it - and Santi manages to snag a parking space right outside.

“This isnotwhat I expected,” I admit as he holds the door to the restaurant open for me.

“Good surprise or bad surprise?” he asks, one brow quirking in playful curiosity.

“Good,” I say quickly, glancing around at the traditional interior. “Definitely good.”

The mismatched wooden chairs and chalkboard menus give it a homey, unpretentious feel, and I observe the tension in my shoulders dissipate as we step further inside. We’re seated by apretty waitress at a table near the window, where the last rays of sunlight filter through.

“So,” he says, leaning back in his chair as he picks up a menu, “what looks good to you?”

“I’m thinking the grilled fish,” I reply, still scanning the options in case there’s anything I’ve missed.

“Great choice,” he says. “Guess I’ll have to order something else. Can’t have us looking like copycats.”

I laugh, and the ice between us melts even further.

Our starting dishes arrive, and the conversation flows as easily as the drinks. We talk about my teaching job, the challenges of moving to a new country, and the odd quirks of learning Spanish given that it’s been a while since I practised.

“So,” I say, tilting my glass toward him, “you’re a bit of a mystery. I still feel like I know next to nothing about you.”

Santi smirks, setting down his fork. “Maybe I like being a mystery.”

“Or maybe you’re still avoiding the question,” I counter in a sing-song voice.

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