Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
See? I’m already thinking in Spanish. I’m settling in!
Out on the sidewalk, I turn left and teeter my way back to the hostel so I can regroup. The area is packed with people. By Ibiza standards, it’s still early, practically the afternoon. I don’t have to call it a night. I could dip into any one of these bars and try my luck with another flirty Spaniard, but I’m exhausted. I still haven’t adjusted to my new time zone.
I landed on Ibiza three days ago with a duffel bag crammed full of summer outfits, skimpy bikinis, and cold, hard cash. I have two thousand euros and a plan in place. I’ve just yet to actually implement it. I wanted to give myself a day or two to adjust, but now I’m running low on excuses.
Tomorrow I need to start my job search. I can’t keep blowing my money or this whole thing will be over before I’ve even given myself a real chance to accomplish anything. So far, I’ve been frugal, but it’s not enough.
The hostel where I found temporary housing is thirty-one euros a night, and while I can eat out for practically nothing (less, even, if I convince myself that glass of sangría was dinner), it still adds up. I only have my cash to rely on. I really don’t want to use my credit cards or debit card because I don’t want to run the risk that they’ll be tracked. It’s a little ridiculous I’m even worrying about such a thing. It’s not because I’m a marked woman or anything. I’m not on the lam, not in witness protection, not running from a mafia hitman.
It’s simple: I lied to my parents and fled the States so I could have a no-holds-barred scandalous summer abroad. If I’m going to pull this off, I can’t take any chances. I have to stay under the radar as much as possible. I probably shouldn’t even be telling people my real name, but it’s not like Isabel is all that conspicuous. I bet there are plenty of us running around this island. I only need to worry if someone asks for my last name, and then I’ll lie. Isabel De Vere doesn’t exist here.
I reach the cross streets where I usually take a left to get back to my hostel. Instead, I continue on into the nicer area of Playa d’en Bossa, toward the fine dining and fancy bars I’ve purposely avoided over the last three days in an effort to keep from overspending.
From what I’ve gathered, most of Ibiza is rustic and quaint. Its simplicity is beautiful. There’s a reason they call this place the White Island. Most of the buildings are whitewashed with lime to reflect heat, much the same way they do on other Mediterranean islands. But while the sea and views are breathtaking, for the most part Ibiza is eclectic and unpretentious. Cobblestone streets house family-run businesses and small cafés. Tourists walk around in flip-flops and bathing suits. There are hostels and open-air markets and tapas bars. The island is quiet and sleepy in the mornings, but at night, it’s loud and vibrant and already jam-packed with people, which is wild considering it’s early May and it’ll only get more crowded as the summer heats up.
Beyond the simple, unassuming neighborhoods, I know there’s another side of Ibiza. I’ve seen glimpses of the expensive homes and yachts, but it’s only now as I walk deeper into Playa d’en Bossa that I realize there’s real money here, the kind I left behind back in California.
I shiver despite the heat and wrap my arms protectively around my waist. It’s strange to be wandering on my own on the sidewalk like any normal person. Three days and my new reality still hasn’t sunk in.
I’m used to traveling with a shadow in the form of Steve, a six-foot-two beefy ex-Marine who’s said maybe three words to me in all his time employed as my family’s bodyguard. And I know how that sounds: sexy, right? A hot dude who knows when to shut up? Yes, please. But Steve is a sweet man with a sweet wife and also my dad’s age. Anyway, he started traveling with my family and me when I was twelve. He isn’t with me all the time, just when my parents think it’s imperative. This situation would definitely call for Steve. Ibiza is halfway around the world from Montecito. I’m all alone here on the island. I know no one and I’m carrying a purse with—oh look at that—euros literally spilling out of it. Dammit. I zip it up and position it safely in front of my chest. To be clear, I stowed most of the cash I brought in a locker back at my hostel, but according to all the research I’ve done (aka reading mystery and thriller books), you’re supposed to divide it up in case something happens to one of your stashes.