hostess was far too pretty, with her gazelle legs and short skirt. Jealousy punched me in the gut when the pretty young thing threw her arms around Santiago’s broad shoulders and hugged him.
“What the—?” I snapped my mouth shut and moved away from the window as he made his way back through the crowd to little old normal-legged me.
“It’s our lucky day.” Santiago pointed to a table being cleared next to the window.
“What did you have to do, give up a kidney?” I whispered as we walked passed the line.
“Nothing so dramatic,” was all he’d say.
The hostess stood by the table beaming at him.
My word, she is young. And gorgeous. And curvy.
“Thank you, Daniela, this is great,” he said.
She handed us the menus as we sat. “If there is anything more you need…” She gave Santiago’s shoulder a little rub. “Anything…” The word hung in the air.
Heat rose in my cheeks. My fists balled under the table. Hello? I’m sitting right here.
She turned her dark eyes toward me for the first time. “Doctor Botello saved my brother’s life. My family will always be in his debt. Enjoy your meal.”
He watched her walk away. “Nice girl.”
“Indeed.” I smiled at him. “And quite pretty.”
“Yes, she’ll be a beauty when she grows up.”
When she grows up . Man, I liked this guy.
“Hey, your back is to the window. You can’t see the great view from there.” I pointed to the segment of the Roman aqueduct arches framed by the window.
“Not true. I have the best view in the place.” He was looking at me.
I blushed and opened the menu. “Uh-oh.”
His black eyebrows notched up.
“Having a little trouble understanding some of these Spanish dishes.” I lifted the menu. “For example, what is morcilla ?”
He grimaced. “Not sure you want to know, unless you like sausage balls filled with blood.”
“Eeww.” I shuddered. “Passing on morcilla . What about this, ‘calamares en su tinta’ ?”
“Squid in its ink.”
“Double eeww.”
He laughed. “Shall I order for us?”
“Thank you.” I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Have you decided?” the waiter asked. I glanced up from my menu to see a short man, on the downhill side of fifty, with slender shoulders and a voluptuous belly flopping over his belt. He was the first overweight person I had seen in Spain.
Straight-faced, Santiago said that we wanted the blood sausage and squid loaded with ink.
“What?” I gasped.
“ Mentiras . Just joking. Salad, American style. Oysters. And, oh yes, paella.”
“American?” The waiter asked me.
“Guilty as charged.”
“You have come for the Tour?” he asked.
I frowned.
“The Tour de France,” Santiago explained.
“Isn’t that a bike race?” I asked.
The men exchanged glances. Santiago rolled his eyes. The waiter crossed his arms. “Not just any bike race, señorita . The best, most important race in the world.”
“Americans are more occupied with that game they call football and that other one where they hit a ball with a stick to follow a real sport. Ignorance.” Santiago’s lips curled above the glass when he took a sip of wine.
“Hey! You’re getting entirely too much enjoyment out of this,” I grumbled at him.
He winked.
“ Señorita , your American, Lance Armstrong, won the Tour seven times. An impossible feat never accomplished before. He is a world champion! An American hero. All that after conquering cancer. How can you not be a fan?”
“Well, sure, I know who Lance Armstrong is—”
Santiago leaned toward the waiter conspiratorially. “When I lived in America, the Tour de France was hardly televised.”
Shaking his head, the waiter huffed all the way back to the kitchen.
“Jeez, you would think I made a derogatory remark about his restaurant. Or his mother. Why is he upset about a bike ride in France?”
“Race,” he corrected. “We take our European sports very seriously. I am happy we were not asked to leave.”
“You’re
“What the—?” I snapped my mouth shut and moved away from the window as he made his way back through the crowd to little old normal-legged me.
“It’s our lucky day.” Santiago pointed to a table being cleared next to the window.
“What did you have to do, give up a kidney?” I whispered as we walked passed the line.
“Nothing so dramatic,” was all he’d say.
The hostess stood by the table beaming at him.
My word, she is young. And gorgeous. And curvy.
“Thank you, Daniela, this is great,” he said.
She handed us the menus as we sat. “If there is anything more you need…” She gave Santiago’s shoulder a little rub. “Anything…” The word hung in the air.
Heat rose in my cheeks. My fists balled under the table. Hello? I’m sitting right here.
She turned her dark eyes toward me for the first time. “Doctor Botello saved my brother’s life. My family will always be in his debt. Enjoy your meal.”
He watched her walk away. “Nice girl.”
“Indeed.” I smiled at him. “And quite pretty.”
“Yes, she’ll be a beauty when she grows up.”
When she grows up . Man, I liked this guy.
“Hey, your back is to the window. You can’t see the great view from there.” I pointed to the segment of the Roman aqueduct arches framed by the window.
“Not true. I have the best view in the place.” He was looking at me.
I blushed and opened the menu. “Uh-oh.”
His black eyebrows notched up.
“Having a little trouble understanding some of these Spanish dishes.” I lifted the menu. “For example, what is morcilla ?”
He grimaced. “Not sure you want to know, unless you like sausage balls filled with blood.”
“Eeww.” I shuddered. “Passing on morcilla . What about this, ‘calamares en su tinta’ ?”
“Squid in its ink.”
“Double eeww.”
He laughed. “Shall I order for us?”
“Thank you.” I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Have you decided?” the waiter asked. I glanced up from my menu to see a short man, on the downhill side of fifty, with slender shoulders and a voluptuous belly flopping over his belt. He was the first overweight person I had seen in Spain.
Straight-faced, Santiago said that we wanted the blood sausage and squid loaded with ink.
“What?” I gasped.
“ Mentiras . Just joking. Salad, American style. Oysters. And, oh yes, paella.”
“American?” The waiter asked me.
“Guilty as charged.”
“You have come for the Tour?” he asked.
I frowned.
“The Tour de France,” Santiago explained.
“Isn’t that a bike race?” I asked.
The men exchanged glances. Santiago rolled his eyes. The waiter crossed his arms. “Not just any bike race, señorita . The best, most important race in the world.”
“Americans are more occupied with that game they call football and that other one where they hit a ball with a stick to follow a real sport. Ignorance.” Santiago’s lips curled above the glass when he took a sip of wine.
“Hey! You’re getting entirely too much enjoyment out of this,” I grumbled at him.
He winked.
“ Señorita , your American, Lance Armstrong, won the Tour seven times. An impossible feat never accomplished before. He is a world champion! An American hero. All that after conquering cancer. How can you not be a fan?”
“Well, sure, I know who Lance Armstrong is—”
Santiago leaned toward the waiter conspiratorially. “When I lived in America, the Tour de France was hardly televised.”
Shaking his head, the waiter huffed all the way back to the kitchen.
“Jeez, you would think I made a derogatory remark about his restaurant. Or his mother. Why is he upset about a bike ride in France?”
“Race,” he corrected. “We take our European sports very seriously. I am happy we were not asked to leave.”
“You’re
Similar Books
