Our Secret Summer
R.S. Grey
To my girls, Hallie, Whitney, and Kacey
Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.
Tap here to learn more.
Winnie’s Ibiza Bucket List
Swim at Bora Bora Beach Go to a crazy dance party Day trip to Formentera Eat tapas (until you’re sick) Wild sex (lots!!!) Skinny-dipping
Fall in love BUT ONLY IF THE MAN IS SMOKING HOT!
Get a tattoo
Go cliff jumping at Sa Punta Party on a yacht
Try drugs (maybe???) Surf
Snorkeling
Wander through Old Town Drink all the sangría!
Shop at Hippy Market Punta Arabí Try hierbas ibicencas Watch the sunrise (with that hot man)
Chapter One
Isabel
Everyone in the crowded bar has a cold drink and a group of friends. I’m the only one sitting alone, though I might not be for long. A handsome stranger has been trying to catch my eye for the last few minutes. His gaze slips down my slinky black dress with unabashed interest, and I try not to get my hopes up. This is my third night out on the town since arriving on Ibiza, and so far I have nothing to show for it. No hookups, no oh-god-don’t-stops, not even a measly kiss. But something has to happen soon. I’m growing desperate; “wild sex” is on the bucket list, after all.
But tonight? Do I really have it in me?
I reach for my sangría as the stranger approaches, and I barely contain my wince when he launches into a string of Spanish. It’s unfortunate considering yo no hablo espa?ol.
Ibiza is a tiny island off the coast of Spain. Everyone here speaks Spanish and Catalan. The fact that I didn’t Duolingo my life away for the last few weeks before my arrival was a complete oversight on my part.
“?Inglés?” I ask, offering up a tentative smile.
The guy shakes his head with a disappointed frown, but he doesn’t back away. He’s not going to let a little thing like a language barrier block his shot. “No.”
Okay. Time to metaphorically crack my knuckles and dig deep—all the way back to that half a year of Spanish I took in seventh grade.
“?Cómo te llamas?” Thank you, Shakira, for incorporating conversational Spanish in your 2000s hits.
“Luis.”
He holds his hand out for me to take; it’s a little moist, but I can’t blame the guy. Ibiza is having an unusually warm start to summer. It’s half past ten, the sun set hours ago, and yet the bar is stifling. There’s no AC and the body heat alone is enough to make me want to pour an ice bucket over my head.
“I’m Isabel,” I tell him with an easygoing smile.
Luis withdraws his hand, we each take a swig of our cold drinks, and what follows is nothing short of the most hilarious form of flirting that’s ever existed. Over the span of ten minutes we gesticulate wildly with our hands while cobbling together a rudimentary conversation.
“Do you live here?” becomes “Doooo youuuu liiiivvve heeerrre?”
I’m not translating my English into Spanish so much as into whale-ish. Following up the question by pointing down to the ground proves fruitless.
Luis looks down, following my finger. Then he grimaces. “No… entiendo.”
It’s clear we’re not going to Rosetta Stone our way into romance here. If he were a little more tempting, I’d just cut to the chase and gesture between our lips, but alas, Luis doesn’t really do it for me. He’s cute, sure, but unfortunately there’s no spark.
It’s not long before Luis’s friends come over to collect him, no doubt sensing his failure from across the room. I assume they’re heading off to the next bar. There are many, many more along this strip of road, and countless more multilingual partners for him to pick from. Luis gives me an apologetic look before cutting his losses and making a break for it.
When he’s gone, I deflate and glance down at the antique ring on my right hand.
“Sorry, Winnie,” I whisper under my breath before downing the last of my sangría and slipping off the barstool.
Oh well. So night three in paradise didn’t go as planned. No problema.
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.