Page 3 of Winning Match
Because, my God, is it breathtaking. Blinding.
I clear my throat, reaching for the levelheadedness I’ve always prided myself on. “I thought you left.”
He holds my gaze, and I note the flecks of gold in his green irises. He’s almost too beautiful to be real. To be human. “Something told me to come back.” His voice is low and husky, and a shiver travels down my spine.
“I can’t have dinner with you.”
“Why not?” He leans against the sink, dipping into my space, and even from this angle, I have to crane my neck to look at him. He’s at least three inches taller than Gerard.
Stop comparing him to your ex-boyfriend! I mentally scold myself.
Yeah, especially when he’s better, my snarky subconscious tosses back.
“Well, for starters…” I gesture toward him, flustered by his proximity but not wanting to show it. “I don’t even know your name.”
His eyes flare slightly, and he dips his head. “Fair enough.” He sticks out a hand. “Ale.”
“Ale,” I repeat.
He nods. “And you are?”
Out of my league. The phrase filters through my mind, but thank God, I don’t voice it. Instead, I clear my throat. “Marlowe.”
“Marlowe,” he murmurs, as if testing the sound of my name on his tongue.
He says it sensually and I wonder if he’s doing so on purpose or if it’s a natural byproduct of his accent.
“Now that I know your name, let me try this again. Would you like to have dinner with me, Marlowe?”
His voice is even and soothing. An invitation without the expectation of my having to accept. He waits for my response patiently and he’s so different from Gerard that I almost don’t know how to answer.
Does he have an ulterior motive? Is he going to kidnap me and sell me into sex trafficking like in the Liam Neeson movie, Taken? Gladys made me watch it in an ill-conceived attempt to cheer me up when most of my college friends studied abroad our junior year.
“I promise it’s just dinner.” His voice cuts through my thoughts as though he understands my fears. As though he can read them swirling in my mind.
“I’m not normally this indecisive,” I admit, biting my bottom lip. “I need to call my bank and sort things out so I can book my flight home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Rhode Island.”
“America,” he murmurs as my stomach growls. Loudly. I blush but Ale smirks. “And you are hungry.”
Sighing, I straighten my posture and hook my purse over my shoulder. At this point, what’s the harm in dinner with a sexy stranger in Spain? After tonight, I’ll never see him again.
“I could eat.”
2
Ale
She doesn’t know who I am.
I’ve searched Marlowe’s expression for clues, noted her body language, and gently probed her for information on our walk from the bar to the bustling restaurant behind me. But she has no idea.
Considering we’re in my hometown and my reputation often precedes me, it’s an invigorating and heady realization. In fact, it’s causing me to act in ways I normally don’t.
Sure, I’ll help a woman out and pick up her bar tab. That’s just decent.
