Maeve
Santiago was gone when I woke up in the morning, and that was okay. I was groggy and grumpy and sore and I didn’t want to have any kind of big talk about what went down between us. Maybe he didn’t either and that was why he left.
When I went into the bathroom, I found a note scribbled on hotel stationary on the counter. Despite myself, I smiled at what Santi had written.
Never have I ever skipped a workout. Never have I ever wanted to stay in bed more than I did this morning. Never have I ever wanted to rewind an hour and experience it all over againmorethan I did last night. Never have I ever come that hard. Never have I ever slept with a bandmate. Never have I ever had to figure out how to navigate something like this. Never have I ever regretted a rash decisionlessthan I do now. Never have I ever seen prettier tits than yours. Never have I ever understood Murray more.
If I just got you drunk again, I apologize. Want to grab lunch? Maybe take a walk? Meet me in the lobby at noon. I promise not to make it weird.
-Santi
Last night was...well, I’d been drunk. Not blackout drunk. I remembered every bit of it, but the edges were fuzzy and my inhibitions had been all the way lowered. It normally took me a while to get comfortable with a man, especially while naked, but with Santiago, I’d been brazen. There’d been no contorting myself so my stomach appeared flat, or pushing my breasts together with my arms, or worrying about dimples or rolls. I let that man see every damn inch of me, including my flaws, and he’d taken me with open arms.
Maybe I was misremembering, because alcohol, but to me, it did not seem like I wasn’t his type. Then again, the way he’d been so into me might’ve been due to the alcohol as well.
Shaking the negative self-talk from my mind, I got in the shower and washed last night from my skin, somewhat reluctantly. I could honestly say I’d never had better sex. Of course it had to be with Santiago.Of course. Damn him.
I’d been aiming to show up late. I took my time getting dressed in my uniform of ripped jeans, T-shirt, and boots, put on a little makeup, did a braid in the front of my hair, and I still ended up in the lobby five minutes before noon.
He was waiting for me with damp hair, jeans that hugged his thick, muscular thighs, and a shirt which showed off all the time and dedication he put in at the gym. My resolve to be a hard-ass weakened the second his mouth started twitching—like he was fighting a losing battle with a smile.
I stopped in front of him, my thumbs tucked in my belt loops. “Hey.”
He tipped his chin. “I wasn’t sure you’d be up.”
“At noon?” I let out a huff of a laugh. “Even with my worst hangover, I haven’t slept past ten. My mama trained sleeping in right out of me. I bet you never sleep in either.”
“Nope.” He reached out, fingering my braid. “My old man got me up by eight on the weekends. Usually earlier. Had me working on cars beside him from the time I was old enough to learn.”
“While I was up doin’ chores and making my daddy breakfast.”
We walked outside. Stopped. I looked left, he looked right, then we stared at each other, and I burst out laughing at the perplexed frown on his face.
“Where the hell are we?” he grumbled.
“Um...Spain?” I guessed.
Man, it was crazy to realize I wasn’t sure what country I was in. The buildings surrounding us were non-descript city high rises. We could have been anywhere in the world.
“You sure?”
Another laugh made me sputter. “No. Not one hundred percent.”
Our eyes met, and a smile slowly took over his previously grumpy face. His knuckles brushed the apple of my cheek. We were about to have a moment, or perhaps the moment was already in motion, but the last thing I wanted was to start having moments with this man. Crazy great sex was one thing. Sweet gestures and meaningful eye contact would only lead me to a place I didn’t want to be.
Taking a step back, I turned away, searching for street signs, even though I was pretty sure I knew where we were.
Eventually, we agreed we were in Madrid and started walking in search of food. We settled on a small, hole-in-the-wall place that served Spanish tortillas—a mix of eggs, potatoes, and onions baked into a circle of deliciousness. Santiago’s had ham and peas, which I insisted he share with me, and I shared a slice of mine with him.
He looked up from his plate, watching me chew from across the too-small Formica table.
“How are you?” he asked.
I wiped my mouth, my eyes narrowing. “Tired, but I’m doin’ just fine. You?”
His eyes drifted down, then back up before he leaned in, his elbows on the table. “I’m wondering if you’re still feeling me.”
Heat shot up from between my legs all the way to my cheeks. I crossed my ankles, trying to cover some of my face with my hair.