Page 4 of Winning Match
But parting ways with my friends to return to the bar I left? Needing to make sure she has her purse? Taking her to goddamn dinner so I can hear about her depressing day?
That’s not me. And yet, with Marlowe, my curiosity is piqued.
“We’re here.” I point to the entrance. “Have you had tapas yet?”
She shakes her head, pulling her cell phone away from her ear and frowning at it. “No, I just arrived today.” Her eyes flick to mine. “I can’t get through to my bank. It’s one automated message after another.”
Guilt rolls through me that I didn’t insist she order some snacks at the bar. She must be starving if she hasn’t eaten since her arrival. Gently, I reach out to take her phone and end the call before passing it back to her. “Come on, you should eat. We’ll get this sorted afterwards.” I touch the small of her back to guide her into the restaurant.
When she presses back against my fingertips—not in a flirty gesture—but as though craving a human connection, surprise mixes with my guilt.
This girl is going through some things. And after the summer I had—namely being passed over for League Valencia’s captain position, having my new Lamborghini destroyed by a jealous date, and Papá being too disgusted to look me in the eye—I need to steer clear of women with baggage.
But there’s something about Marlowe that intrigues me. Desperately so, and I’m not sure why.
Why is she dressed in designer clothing but can’t pay for a margarita? Why does she hold herself with sophisticated grace yet look like she’s two minutes away from sobbing her eyes out? Why doesn’t she recognize me at all?
And, best of all, why the hell am I ignoring my better judgment to spend time with her? To take her to one of the most popular restaurants in one of the trendiest neighborhoods of Valencia where we’ll certainly be photographed together when I’m supposed to be lying low?
The restaurant is busy and bursting with life when we enter. Every table is filled with families and friends talking, laughing, and drinking together.
I step to the hostess stand. While I know for a fact that there are no available tables, I also know they hold two in the back for VIP clients. I don’t even have to say my name before the hostess’s eyes widen in recognition. She smiles and picks up two menus, leading us toward a table.
I tug gently on Marlowe’s arm. “We’re this way.”
“Wow,” she whispers as I hold out the chair for her to sit at the cozy, four-top in the back corner. “It’s busy in here.”
“Always.”
“And it’s late.” She taps on the face of her watch. “It’s ten p.m. You’re sure the kitchen is still open?”
I chuckle, amused by her question. “Marlowe, dinner is just starting here. We have the whole night ahead of us. Tell me what you like.” I tap my finger against the menu.
She stares at me, a little line appearing between her brows. “I’m-I’m not sure. I’ve never had Spanish food.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, “we’ll get a little bit of everything for you to try.” I scan the menu, mentally clocking the usual tapas—patatas bravas, Ibérico ham and manchego cheese, croquettes, a Spanish omelet called a tortilla.
Marlowe’s gaze travels around the restaurant, soaking in the energy, the experience, the simplicity. For a moment, I pause to enjoy my city—my home—through her eyes. If I’m honest with myself, it’s one of the reasons why I brought her here. Even if here is begging for trouble.
As my phone buzzes in my pocket, I know I’m already being tagged in social media posts. Paparazzi will likely be waiting outside of my flat tonight, their cameras poised to snap photos.
But right now, I’m out to dinner with an American woman who doesn’t know who the hell I am. It’s the perfect scenario to indulge in some freedom and fun after weeks of going without.
No parties. No women.
Until tonight. Until her.
I can’t read Marlowe. I don’t understand why she agreed to dinner with me. But I like that she’s not posturing or fan-girling. Instead, she’s observant, curious, and thoughtful.
Pure. A woman not from my world.
Safe. A woman who won’t kick up a media shitshow because by the time she learns my full name, my profession, she’ll be back in Rhode Island, with thousands of kilometers between us.
Gorgeous. With shoulder-length, light brown hair, big blue eyes, and barely any makeup, Marlowe is a knockout. She’s nothing like my usual type. The women I take home are akin to social media stans. Full glam makeup, sexily and scantily clad, and interested in a good time at a top-Euro club. They’re always desperate to have bragging rights that after some game in some city, they fucked me.
But Marlowe is fresh-faced and sweet-looking. Her summer dress is flirty and frilly. Her expression is somehow both open and guarded.
She’s different.
