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)
“Cristiano?” I murmur sleepily.
“Hmm?” The noise rumbles in his chest.
“I wish you could have met her. Just once.”
“Actually, I might have…”
I open my eyes and tip my chin up, my arms tightening around him imploringly. “What do you mean? When?”
He studies my features as his hands smooth down my hair again and again. It feels so nice I shiver.
His brows furrow in thought. “I’ve tried to rack my brain about it. I must have met you and your sister at least once before. You weren’t at Dolores’s funeral, I know, but I remember a birthday party for your grandmother in France years and years ago… at that bistro in Paris. Do you remember? I was sixteen at the time, so you would have been really young still, but I was there. I went with Dolores.”
I gasp, suddenly remembering the party he’s talking about. “I WAS THERE! Winnie, too! That was my first time in Paris, for Lita’s sixtieth birthday! Oh my god—” My immediate jolt of excitement reshapes quickly into acute relief so overwhelming my nose stings with emotions as tears slip free. “You were there.”
It’s silly the way the shared memory feels significant—the knowledge that one time, at least, Winnie and Cristiano were in the same room at the same time. Maybe they even talked.
I squeeze him around the middle and he hugs me back, leaning down to kiss my hair. I pull him onto the bed with me and for a moment my world tilts and my head aches, but he settles us together and I’m asleep in his arms before the tears are dry on my cheeks.
For the next few days, I’m never far from Cristiano. I’m in his bed every night, and in the mornings when he drops me back at my apartment, he lingers, kissing me, making me promise I’ll stay another night.
On the Tuesday before Sabor a Sol’s grand opening, Cristiano comes to the beach and watches me surf. Afterward, he shows me the outdoor shower at his house, nestled in the trees. Completely open, but private. We rinse the sand off each other, then Cristiano strips me out of my bikini and washes the rest of me. We come together under the warm Ibiza sun, and then again, inside on his bed.
Wednesday, Cristiano sneaks away from his work so he can take Annika, Simone, and me to wander through Hippy Market Punta Arabí. It’s sprawling and mazelike, with hundreds of artists and artisans lining pathways and whitewashed buildings selling everything from colorful clothes and vintage jewelry to paintings and furniture. Cristiano explains that the market has been on the island since the seventies, and if the vendor has an “original de Ibiza” badge, you know they belong to the local association of craftspeople, a guarantee of authentic artistry.
I’m in a stall admiring a pretty sundress while Cristiano carries on a conversation in Spanish with the owner. She’s an older woman with white hair and tan skin, wrinkles beautifully framing her eyes and wide smile.
“She says that for you, it’s half price,” Cristiano tells me with a wink.
“Oooh, that’s lovely!” Simone says, pointing to my dress before another one catches her eye. “Oh! But this green is divine!”
Cristiano ends up insisting we each pick one, and he’s already paid for them before I can reach for my wallet. As we walk away from the stall, Annika bumps my shoulder. “Maybe I’m wrong, you know. About the summer fling stuff. Ethan is—”
“Horrible. The absolute scum of the earth,” I finish for her. In recent days, he’s started dating the girl Annika saw him kissing at Aura. He’s flaunted her around the apartment complex and the club, rubbing salt in Annika’s wound. Simone won’t even let Annika say his name in her presence anymore. She’s “liable to strangle him” if he so much as looks at Annika ever again.
Annika smiles wistfully at my assessment of Ethan. “Yes, he’s all of that and more, but Cristiano isn’t.” I give her a sardonic look, and she laughs. “He’s been so nice, rescuing us from the club on Friday and playing tour guide this morning. I really could be wrong about him.”
Before we leave Hippy Market Punta Arabí, Cristiano insists we eat a late lunch, sampling all the street food. I finally get to taste hierbas ibicencas. At a busy cart, a man lines up rows of chupitos—frozen shots of the aniseed-flavored liqueur—for us to enjoy. Cristiano shoves euros into a jar and retrieves a shot glass for each of us. Before we drink, we follow Cristiano’s cheers.
“Pa’ arriba, pa’ abajo, pal’ centro, pa’ dentro.”
The liquor is sweet and smooth, with just the slightest hint of licorice.
Cristiano and I leave the market hand in hand while listening to Simone strategize what she’s going to buy the next time she visits.