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)
If Cristiano had made the same joke about a waitress, it would have gutted me.
I reach across the table and take his hand in apology, forcing a smile. “Thank you, for this morning. It was just the right thing.”
He turns his hand up so our fingers can lace together. “Apparently we aren’t done checking tasks off the list for the day. Surely this will be enough.”
He points to the food.
“Enough? For what?”
“Don’t you have to ‘eat tapas until you’re sick’? Isn’t that on the list?”
I laugh at the realization. “Yes. You’re right.”
“Well, get started.”
In true Spanish form, we eat the longest, most relaxed lunch of my life. The sangría keeps flowing until my limbs are languid and my cheeks are flushed. Once Cristiano covers the check and we rise from our table, I feel sick, but not because of the food. Suddenly I have a sinking feeling in my gut. A Sunday feeling, like the fun is almost over, the sun is just about to set.
“Do we have to go now?” I ask. “Or… ?”
Before he can protest, I take his hand and tug him toward the sidewalk that leads from the restaurant down to the beach. I don’t really want to swim again, but I don’t want Cristiano to drive me back home, either. I know how much he has on his plate, how busy he is. We talked about the opening of Sabor a Sol at lunch, and he couldn’t hide the stress, or the fact that his phone continuously buzzed throughout our meal. Eventually he turned it off altogether, but I know that’ll come back to bite him later.
“I need to make a few calls,” he tells me now as I stretch out a towel on the ground.
“That’s fine. Take your time.”
Just please don’t say we have to go.
Cristiano takes his phone out and walks down the beach. I slip out of my sundress and lie down on the towel facing the sea. The beautiful white-capped waves hold my attention, but only for so long. Then, like a relentless magnet, I glance toward where Cristiano paces on the shoreline, talking on the phone while he idly wedges his foot into the sand. I take in his long, tan legs, his muscular thighs. His white T-shirt billows in the wind and I see the bottom of his flat stomach. He tugs a hand through his hair and shakes his head at whatever conversation is happening. His eyes shift up and he sees me staring. He holds up his finger. Just one more minute.
I smile to let him know I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. I never get to look at him like this without him realizing. It’s not like I could just stare at him longingly over the lunch table.
To my left, I spot a woman sitting by herself on a blanket, a forgotten paperback in her lap. She’s noticed Cristiano, and when her gaze cuts to me, her jaw drops and her eyes widen, as if to say, Do you see this guy?
I chuckle to myself and lean forward onto my stomach, dropping my chin on my hands. I force myself to watch the waves, just to see if it’s possible to keep my gaze away from him for five seconds. Ten seconds…
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep in the late-afternoon sun until Cristiano’s lips press against my cheek, stirring me from my nap.
“Bella durmiente. Wake up, sleeping beauty.”
I groan and shift over onto my side, blinking my eyes open and letting them adjust to the sunshine. Cristiano is sitting on the edge of my towel, leaning over me. He brushes my wild wind-whipped hair off my face, tucking it behind my ear, only to have the wind immediately take hold of it again.
His eyes narrow in mock determination as he tries again, and I let him because it feels good to have his fingers skim the back of my ear and the tip of my neck. His touch elicits tingles of desire, waking up the desperate need he initially stoked when he chased me through the water and kissed me before lunch. All afternoon, we sat across from each other, our knees brushing beneath the table, our hands reaching for each other.
After he’s done with my hair, his knuckles trace down my jawline to my chin. Slowly he drops his mouth as I arch up to meet him halfway. Our kiss tastes like the fruity wine we’ve just consumed far too much of. Somehow, if possible, this kiss is even less restrained than the one we shared earlier. It starts out so innocent, too, barely a peck, but Cristiano’s mouth is hungry on mine, impatient and possessive. He comes up and over me until I’m lying flat on my back on the towel, his elbows caging me in. I snake my arms around his neck, pulling him toward me.