Page 1 of Winning Match
1
Marlowe
“Perdona.” The bartender’s voice is low and laced with apology. “La tarjeta de crédito ha sido rechazada otra vez.”
I stare into the man’s kind eyes. I don’t have to know Spanish to understand that he’s politely telling me my credit card—the third card I passed him—is declined. The meaning is woven into the gentle tone of his voice and obvious in the compassion filling his gaze.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, digging into my Chanel wallet for cash. I shake the wallet, relieved when a few euro coins roll forward. My heart thumps, the sound echoing in my eardrums, the beat pulsing in my temples, as my anxiety heightens. I fumble with one of the coins, my fingers trembling.
What if I don’t have enough cash to cover the bill?
What if I can’t reserve a hotel room for tonight?
What if I’m forced to call Gerard for help after we broke up only two hours ago?
“Cóbrate todo, lo mío y lo suyo.” A man steps up beside me at the bar and subtlety slides his credit card across the top. He rests his elbows on the ledge and leans forward, rocking on his feet. Easygoing and unhurried.
The bartender’s eyes widen, and he jerks his head in a nod, accepting the card and running it.
I suck in a breath, both grateful for and fearful of the man’s intervention. What if he expects something in return?
I’m in over my head. Sure, I’ve traveled outside of the United States before, but never alone. And never with a declined credit card, a broken heart, and a bruised ego.
Gladys has been warning me for years that there’s no such thing as a free lunch.
But then again, what does Gladys know? Maybe I wouldn’t be in my current predicament—newly single, tipsy at a bar named Corcho, and at the mercy of a stranger—if I didn’t take her advice and fly to Spain to surprise my boyfriend, Gerard. Ex-boyfriend.
“Thank you. Gracias,” I amend, turning to face him. My words die in my throat as I glimpse the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
His green eyes are electric, studying me curiously. Awareness rolls through me at his unwavering attention, and my body tightens in response.
His pillowy soft lips quirk into half a grin and I sit up straighter, crossing one leg over the other, as my heart rate increases from his proximity alone.
He has a Roman nose, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. Two thick eyebrows arch as he dips his head, his grin widening into a smile, until a dimple appears in his left cheek. It’s both alluring and teasing, a combination that leaves me breathless.
“Don’t worry about it,” he replies in English. His English is deliciously accented, and I lean closer on my barstool, desperate to hear him say more. To say anything.
Clearly, it’s the alcohol. I don’t lust after strangers. I don’t lust after anyone. I’m much too practical, too sensible, to indulge in whims.
But after the past few hours, I don’t blame myself for enjoying two drinks too many. My time in Spain has been a shitshow of epic proportions since the moment my plane touched down and I powered on my phone.
First, I received Grandpa’s clipped text messages informing me that, in the eight hours I’d been offline, Prescott Sail lost our biggest client. That alarming update was followed by Gerard’s award-winning performance—fucking a blonde from behind when I entered his hotel suite. The word surprise died on my lips as I wondered how—when—this became my life?
The stranger accepts the small black book from the bartender and opens it to scrawl his name on the receipt. When he straightens, I notice how tall he is. Imposing and sculpted, like a male model, or a professional athlete, or a figment of my imagination.
I shake my head to clear it, and the sexy stranger tosses me a smirk. He fists a hand, knocking it on the bar top.
“Be safe,” he says, giving me a long, knowing look.
Then, he joins his friends and slips from a side exit, disappearing from the bar.
I stare after him, mentally repeating his words.
Be safe.
Is that a warning? A threat? A common courtesy?
The fact that I don’t know highlights how little experience I have with men. I’ve been with Gerard since Dad introduced us at a sailing regatta our junior year of college.
