“Oh . . .” I stare at the menu. I’ve never had any of those meals. “That’s weird food.”
He gives me a sad smile. “Is it?”
“Uh-huh . . .” I keep looking through the menu. “Maybe you should put anchovies on the pizza if you want to feel exotic?”
He gives me a broad, beautiful smile and picks up my hand as it sits on the table and squeezes it in his. “Maybe.” He watches me for a moment. “What kind of food do you eat at home?”
I shrug. “I never really eat out.”
“Why not?”
“I live alone.” I shrug again. “I don’t know. I like cooking, I guess.”
“What kind of things do you cook?” he asks.
“Lots of things.” I smile over at him as he listens intently. “I’m pretty good, actually. When we get home, you’ll have to come and visit me one day, and I’ll cook for you.”
His eyes hold mine. “I’d like that.”
“What will it be, sir?” the waitress asks him.
“I’ll have the sierra pizza with anchovies,” he replies. He glances over and gives me a sexy wink.
“Mr. Exotic,” I mouth.
He chuckles as he speaks to the waitress. “What scotch do you have?” he asks her.
“House scotch.”
He winces. “Okay, I’ll have a glass of red wine.”
I laugh out loud as I am spun around. It’s our last night in San Sebastián, and we are celebrating in style.
We have sunned, swum, and laughed our way through the week. Sightseeing through the day and dancing the night away until we drop into an unconscious sleep in the early hours of the morning. If this is what the next twelve months look like, then sign me up. I’ve never had so much fun.
The new friends I’ve met are hilarious, and weirdly, it feels like a little family already. We all do our own thing but always look out for each other and end up safely back in the same room at the end of each night.
Rod Stewart’s song “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy” blares through the speakers, and Christopher spins me out and then pulls my body back to his as we dance. My stomach hurts from laughing.
This man . . . this beautiful man.
He’s funny and smart and weirdly obsessed with factual literature. We’ve spent the whole week together . . . it’s been perfect.
If the truth be told, I’m quite enamored of him. Not that I will ever admit it.
He isn’t the kind of man I could let myself fall for. I already know how it would end.
I would lose my friend, one that I’ve become very attached to.
I see the women he looks at and talks to. They’re the complete opposite of me. He likes thin; I’m curvy. He likes supermodel high-maintenance types. I’m simple. He likes flirty and fun, and I’m quiet and shy. He likes promiscuous, and I haven’t had sex in a really long time.
Too long.
Wherever he is, he’s the center of attention. Everyone wants to be with him, and yet here’s me, wanting to blend in with the walls.
Chalk and cheese.
We couldn’t be more different.
The reality of it sucks, because we have this weird unstated connection. We’re touchy with each other and always end up at the back of the pack, talking between the two of us.
He cuddles my back in bed, and I rely on him more than I should.