Page 5 of Winning Match
And after the self-imposed quarantine that was my summer, I want her in ways I haven’t experienced in a long time. With a reckless desperation and a neediness that would be alarming if I wasn’t so intent on getting what I want.
Just one night with this enigmatic woman. One smile to clear the pain in her soulful eyes. One chance to be Ale, a regular guy out with an American woman, instead of Alejandro García, League Valencia’s center forward and Rubén García’s less-talented son.
I place an order with the server—an array of tapas, a bottle of water, and a pitcher of Agua de Valencia. Then, I steeple my fingers together and lean forward.
Marlowe’s eyes widen. “That sounded like a lot of food.”
“You should try everything while you have the chance.” I smirk. “Why are you having such a terrible time in Spain?”
Marlowe sighs heavily. “I flew here to surprise my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. If I’m being honest, it was Gladys’s fault for urging me to come. I blame my whole Sewing Circle,” she mutters, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Your sewing—what?”
“You know, a group of women who gather to sew, or knit…” She trails off, that small line appearing between her brows. “I guess we should consider calling it a knitting circle since Judith recently leaned into Portuguese knitting.”
“Portuguese knitting?” I question, trying to follow her line of thought. But I love the adorable way her face scrunches up when she thinks. I could sit back and watch the emotions flit across her face, offering me a peek into her mind. Her soul.
She’s not calculated or cunning the way most women I date are. They start the evening off with an end goal in mind—their actions carefully guided by an ulterior motive.
Not Marlowe. No, she’s nothing like the women I’m used to.
She shrugs. “We gather to sew, or knit, and talk. I meet with them once a week.”
“Your friends?”
“Yes. Gladys, Dorothy, and Judith.” Marlowe waves a hand in my direction. “They’re going to love this story. I’ll be retelling it for weeks, maybe even months, to come.”
My heart rate jumps, and I narrow my eyes. Maybe she does know who I am. Maybe she’s been waiting for the right moment to?—
“They’ve been warning me for years about Gerard’s red flags. They want me to get out more, socialize, and have fun.” Marlowe shakes her head, and I lean closer. “They’ll like that I tried tapas.”
“I’m sure they’ll like that you’re taking their advice, too.”
“Absolutely!” Marlowe laughs. “They’re a bunch of old mother hens—all of them in their eighties.”
“Their eighties?” I repeat, making sure I heard her correctly.
She nods. “But don’t let their age fool you; they’re a lively bunch.”
I chuckle, amused and charmed and…relaxed. At ease in a way I almost forgot how to feel. “Sounds like my abuela would fit right in. She’s the most energetic woman I know. She’s always baking, going to Zumba, FaceTiming my sister in America.”
Marlowe perks up. “Your sister lives in the US?”
I suck in a breath. Am I divulging too much information? But the look in her eyes reassures me that she has no idea who my family is. “Both of them,” I admit. “Carla lives in Chicago and Valentina is in Tennessee.”
“And you’re here.”
“Yes, the rest of my family is in Spain.”
“Do you visit the US often?”
“A few times a year.” It will be more frequently now that Valentina is married to a professional American football quarterback Avery Callaway, and has no intention of returning to Valencia.
This information seems to put Marlowe at ease, and she leans back in her chair. Our server appears with the pitcher and pours two glasses of Agua de Valencia.
“This is a traditional cocktail,” I explain, holding up my glass.
Marlowe’s eyes spark as she lifts hers delicately, tilting it in my direction.
