Page 2 of Winning Match
From our first encounter, I was charmed. From our first kiss, I was convinced that Gerard was my future.
Picking up my empty glass, I suck on the straw until the slurping sound echoes in my eardrums. A tiny drop of tequila hits my tongue, and I close my eyes. I am a shitty judge of character.
Sighing, I place down the glass, scoop up my cell phone, and move toward the bathroom. I need to pull myself together and sort out my next steps.
Call the bank. Reserve a hotel room. Book a flight home.
Locking myself into a stall, I lean my head back and close my eyes. But it’s no use; the scene of Gerard and the blonde is imprinted on my eyelids. I tap my head back against the cool metal door and am relieved when my phone buzzes with an incoming message.
Grandpa
How long are you staying in Spain for?
There’s a team owner in Valencia you should connect with.
José Costa
He’s in need of an expedited delivery.
We could make it work if you can close the deal.
“You in here?” a male voice asks.
I gasp, slipping my phone into my pocket and standing stock-still. Does he mean me?
“I can see your sandals,” he says, his tone laced with humor. “I like the pink polish.”
It’s him! The stranger from the bar. What does he want?
Tentatively, I unlock the stall door and peek around the side. The stranger with the green eyes is leaning against the wall, his feet crossed at the ankles, smirking at me and holding up my purse. Shit, I must have forgotten it on the bar.
I roll my eyes, feeling less grateful than I should, as I stride toward him and swipe the purse. “Thanks.”
“You’re practically begging to be robbed.”
I shrug. “Apparently my cards are useless.”
One corner of his mouth tugs upward as if he wants to grin but it falls flat before he completes the movement. “A woman like you”—he tilts his chin in my direction, narrowing his eyes—“dressed in Carolina Herrera, the brand isn’t Spanish, by the way. Many assume it is.”
“She’s Venezuelan,” I rattle off the fact—fashion trivia instilled in me from a young age by my mom. I pause in front of the mirror, feigning nonchalance, as I swipe on some lip gloss. My eyes dart to him in the reflection.
He pushes off the wall and continues speaking, “With a Chanel purse and wallet and no working credit cards...”
“It’s a long story,” I lament.
He steps beside me at the sink, and I turn toward him.
He glances at his watch before his eyes latch onto mine. They’re bottomless—cool pools of green shaded with amusement, curiosity, and a flicker of heat. “You can tell me over dinner.”
My heart leaps into my throat. Is he asking me out? On a date?
I can’t even remember the last time Gerard took me on a real date.
Acting cool and collected even as my overactive mind spins millions of scenarios, I turn back toward the mirror. “Does that line ever work?”
“Only when the woman is actually hungry.”
And I can’t help it, I snort out a laugh. My eyes flick to his again and in the reflection of the mirror, he gives me a real smile. My knees nearly buckle.
