The Spaniard

Book 1 in the ‘European’ series

Sun, sand, sea, and one tall, dark, handsome, infuriating Spaniard!

Kit

A grumpy/sunshine sizzling holiday romance!

I always thought my best friend was the one; that he’d wake up one day and see me the way I saw him.

But after tragedy strikes, the illusion is shattered, and I realized he didn’t care about me at all.

Grieving, and needing to put some distance between him and me, I run away to my parents’ villa in Spain.

I needed peace, I needed time to reflect, and I needed to heal. What I didn’t need was a grumpy Spanish guy giving me hell every time he sees me.

From the first meeting, Rafael Romero and I clashed…big time! I thought, after helping his sister, he’d be grateful, perhaps even charming given his polished, super-hot exterior.

Ha! I should have learned to never judge a book by its cover.

Whenever Rafael opens his mouth, he is nothing short of rude, arrogant, and infuriating. In fact, half the time, I could quite happily strangle him!

What’s worse, it looks like I’m stuck helping him on his quest to hunt down his sister’s would-be attackers.

But at least I’m not that same girl who believed in fairytales; I’m doing this to help his sister, nothing more.

Nothing. More.

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Sample:

“This is Miguel, you need to tell him what you’d like for breakfast,” I instruct her as I retrieve my wallet from my back pocket.

“Oh, I’m fine thanks,” she says with awkward laughter.

Miguel grins at me, knowing I’m being an ass, so I turn around to face her. She takes in a gulp of air, which tells me I must be scowling, even though I hadn’t intended to.

“Please, let’s not do this merry dance,” I begin with a bored sigh, “just tell the man what you want, or I’ll order you the same as me.”

“What are you having?” she asks, all the while Miguel leans on top of the bar, just watching the both of us.

“Callos Madrilenos,” I reply, causing Miguel to look down and shake his head at me with silent laughter.

“What’s that?” she asks, looking curious again.

“A traditional Spanish dish from Madrid,” I inform her. “Miguel’s mama makes hers with morcilla, Spanish blood sausage, but some prefer to use ox cheek.” 

I notice her nose screwing up in disgust, just as I thought she might.  I have yet to meet an English tourist who chooses to eat offal, whereas my sister and I were brought up with dishes using the whole animal, not just the cuts that are considered more palatable.  Of course, I do not eat such dishes for breakfast; I am just playing with her. 

“The main ingredient is tripe.  Miguel always uses honeycomb, for it is the most tender type you can buy.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, looking positively green.  Miguel has now turned his back on us, but if you look carefully, you can see his shoulders shuddering with laughter.

“So, you want to join me?” I ask as if I haven’t noticed how pale she’s turned over such a prospect.

“Er…do you have anything a little lighter on the stomach? I’m not used to eating such delicacies in the morning.  Perhaps some fruit or yogurt?” she asks, looking toward Miguel, who has had to cough away his laughter and plaster on a serious expression just for her.  He looks incredibly uncomfortable.

“Of course,” he says in a professional tone of voice, “how about a fruit salad? Perhaps a croissant for after?”

“Perfect,” she almost shouts, beaming from ear to ear.

I hold out my hand toward a table near the back and she begins walking. I take one last look at Miguel who calls me a bastard, then begins silently laughing again.

“Eggs?” Miguel mutters.

“As always,” I reply with a wink.

Kit

This is so not what I came away for, being subjected to eating in front of one of the most attractive and moody people I’ve ever met.  I feel sick at the very thought, and now he’s about to eat tripe in front of me. And not just any tripe – tripe full of holes! The thought of it grosses me out, let alone seeing it in the flesh.  I don’t have an issue with offal if that’s your bag, but the honeycomb part? This girl has trypophobia, a fear of holes. Though I wouldn’t call it a fear, more of a gross-out.  I can’t even bear crumpets.

“Are you…ok?” Rafael asks me, looking at me like I’m one sandwich short of a picnic.  Just to finalize that assessment, I gift him with one of my maniacal smiles.  “You just shuddered.”

“Are you really having that honeycomb tripe dish?” I all but whisper, for I know he’s going to tease me about it.

“Alas, Miguel has run out,” he says with a smirk of satisfaction over my discomfort.  When he sees me sigh with relief, he furrows his brow, as if he’s genuinely confused by me.  “Are you vegetarian or something?”

“Something,” I reply with a sigh.  He simply keeps staring at me, urging for an explanation without the possibility of me getting out of it.  “It’s the pattern of holes; it creeps me out.”

He keeps staring, unblinking and unfaltering in his emotionless expression.

“It’s called tryp—”

Before I can complete the word, he bursts out laughing and shakes his head; I feel even smaller than I did before. The bastard keeps laughing when Miguel, the barman, brings our breakfast over. Even after that, he remains grinning at me, enjoying the fact that I’m now sitting here with my arms firmly crossed and a thoroughly pissed-off expression on my face.

“Gracias,” I murmur to Miguel who gives me a friendly smile before walking off. I think he knows his friend is being an arse, even if he doesn’t know why or how, it’s just that obvious.

“I’m glad my condition amuses you,” I say with a sneer. “I should have guessed this would have been your reaction; you’ve been uber-friendly so far.”

“You think I’m an asshole?” he asks with his arrogant grin still in place.

“No,” I mutter, to which he looks at me like I’m a giant liar.  “I know you’re one!”

There, I said what I said, and now I expect him to give me hell. In fact, I lean forward and wait for him to call me a whole host of names, but instead, he laughs again, to the point where he has to wipe away a few tears with the back of his hand. I slam my body back against the chair with a roll of my eyes, waiting impatiently for the bastard to stop. I’m left waiting a long time. I think I would have preferred name-calling. The man is utterly infuriating!

However, after a few moments of looking at his face without its usual moody expression, instead lighting up with mirth, I can’t help but relent my scowling and smile. And then, without my permission, my smile turns into a giggle.

“I guess you’re right,” he says when he finally begins to calm down, still wiping away tears of laughter from his eyes.