Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1) Read online

  I turn my head on the pretzel of my arms. Squinting against the bright autumn sun, I meet Rafa’s eyes.

  I’m so happy I could go fuck a fish, I say.

  Rafa grins, the lines around his mouth deepening with pleasure. That makes absolutely no sense.

  I know, I say, grinning back. But it’s true. I didn’t think I could ever be this happy.

  I’m glad you gave me a chance, Vivian, he says. I’m so glad you see that it was worth it.

  His fingers move to my neck, working small, poignant circles on my skin. A familiar desire spikes through me.

  It was totally worth it, I gasp. God, Rafa, that feels good—

  “Buenos días, Vivian.”

  I start at the sound of his voice, my body jolting awake. I open my eyes, the edges of my vision still blurry from sleep. I’m on my belly, arms tucked beneath the pillow; his fingers still work those circles on the nape of my neck.

  The room takes shape around me. Tall ceilings, pale walls, the fluffy expanse of a bed. Last night comes back in a rush: our dinner date at that cute little tapas place in Salamanca; the bottle of wine we split, Rafa’s wandering hands on the cab ride home; the quick and dirty sex we had in the foyer of his parents’ apartment (don’t worry, they’re gone for another weekend) because we were too horny to wait one.more.second.

  “Buenos días,” I say, grinning up at him. He’s mine.

  And he’s naked.

  “Did you have good dreams?” he asks, smoothing back the hair from my face.

  I blink. I was having good dreams—in Spanish.

  “Holy shit,” I say, turning over. I sit up, the sheet sliding down my naked body. This time I don’t try to cover up; instead I giggle as Rafa dips his head and says good morning to my left breast.

  “What?” he murmurs, moving to the right.

  My giggles turn breathless. “I think,” I say, “I dreamed in Spanish. Like, the whole dream, everything. Not a word of English.”

  Rafa grins from his perch between my boobs. “See? I told you it would happen! Congrats, Vivian. Less than three months in Spain and already you’re fluent.”

  I dig my hand into his bed-mussed curls. “I had a really great tutor.”

  I begin to pull him up for a kiss when he stops me. “Wait. I have some news.”

  Rafa waves an envelope between us, the frayed flap hanging open. Even in the dim morning light, I can make out the red and gold Meryton University letterhead.

  My stomach clenches. “You heard back already?”

  “Just this morning,” he says. He meets my eyes. “Vivian, I got the job.”

  It takes me a minute to process what those four words mean. Rafa got the job. He’s going to teach undergrad classes at Meryton’s school of journalism in the fall.

  Which means he’ll be coming back to the States with me this summer, when my year-long study abroad adventure comes to an end.

  We’re going to be together for another year.

  I throw my arms around him in the tightest bear hug I can muster, whispering my congratulations in his ear as I tug him down on top of me. I nip his earlobe. He kisses my neck. In the space of half a heartbeat I’m ready again, I am ready for him, as if having sex all night wasn’t enough. I want more.

  And Rafa can give me more. In fact, he’s going to give me a year. With any luck it will be more than that; after I graduate, I’ll be free to move wherever I want, to do whatever—and whomever—I want.

  This forever thing that I’ve dreamed about for so long—the romance I wanted but thought I couldn’t get—maybe it can actually happen with Rafa. It is happening, right here, right now, my heart so full inside my chest I can hardly breathe around it.

  I’m so happy I could go fuck a fish, I say, breathlessly, in Spanish.

  Rafa grins against my mouth as he settles on top of me, circling his hips to nudge my legs apart. How about you fuck me instead?

  Real Rafa is far wittier than dream Rafa. Who knew?

  Vale, I say, and surrender.

  We don’t have to worry about condoms anymore; we were both screened at Rafa’s doctor not long after our Seville trip, and I got on the pill ASAP.

  He slips inside me with a small moan, tugging the sheets over our heads.

  They’re blue, his sheets, just like I imagined they would be.

  ***

  Later that night

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Rafa says, sipping at his Cuba libre. “But I invited my uncle, Javier, to join us. For one drink only, he says the weather is very good tomorrow so he wants to fly.”

  “Fly?” Maddie says. “Is he, like, a pilot or something?”

  Rafa nods. “He has his own plane, too. Little plane, but it is still very fun. He is just back from a long trip for business, and he hasn’t been able to fly for many months. I am excited for you chicas to meet him. He asked me and Vivian to fly with him, but we’ve got tickets to the fútbol match tomorrow. Maybe Maddie can go with Javier?”

  “That wouldn’t be awkward at all,” she replies, “being on a tiny little plane with your uncle who I’ve never met.”

  “You’re going to like Javier. He is not like other uncles.”

  Maddie shrugs.

  It’s midnight—pretty early by Madrid standards—and Ático, our favorite discoteca, is just beginning to get crowded.

  Maddie meets my eyes over her gintonic and grins.

  “I like this little Saturday night tradition,” she says. “You guys take care of your third wheel, and I appreciate that.”

  I reach across the table and swipe away a bit of lime from her lip. “Wouldn’t be Saturday night without you,” I say. “We started that tradition freshman year, remember? Just because we’re in Spain—”

  “And just because you sleep over at your super hot Spanish boyfriend’s apartment,” Maddie adds.

  “Right. Just because things are a little different doesn’t mean the tradition has to change.”

  “So wait,” Rafa says. “I guess I’m the third wheel, then, aren’t I? I should be thanking you”—here he looks at Maddie—“for letting me crash your Saturday night with Vivian.”

  Drink at her lips, Maddie is no doubt about to make a witty yet profanity-laden reply when her gaze catches on something over my head. She goes still, eyes wide.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.

  And then it’s my turn to go still.

  There is a very handsome—and very scruffy—Madrileño standing behind me, his light brown eyes almost amber in the bar’s sultry red lights. He’s built, broad about the shoulders and chest, like a football player; his beard looks just careless enough to be supremely, intimidatingly sexy.

  “Tío!” Rafa launches out of his seat and pulls the man into a bro hug, the two of them trading barbs in Spanish as they embrace. I see the resemblance right away; the handsome slopes of their faces, the muscular roll of their shoulders and arms; even their voices, the way they speak, sounds similar.

  Javier can’t be more than twenty-five. If that.

  I meet Maddie’s eyes. She’s thinking it, too: holy shit, this dude is Rafa’s uncle?

  Rafa turns to me. “Vivian, I’d like you to meet Javier.”

  “Ah! So this is the Vivian I have been hearing so much about. It is wonderful to finally meet you.” He presses kisses into my cheeks while I stare, and stare, and keep staring.

  “Wow,” I say. “Just. Um, wow. I gotta be honest, Javier, you are not at all what I was expecting.”

  “Javier is more like a cousin to me,” Rafa explains. “It is a joke, yes?, that I call him uncle, really, because we are almost the same age. My grandfather, he married again when he was very old to a younger woman. They had a small family. Javier is part of that family.”

  I furrow my brow. “How much younger are you than Rafa’s—”

  “Father?” Javier says. “I am twenty-four now, so that is, what, Rafael, twenty-two years between me and my brother?”

  “Wow,”
I say.

  “Wow,” Maddie says behind me, standing.

  Javier’s molten eyes move from me to Maddie. I could be imagining it—I probably am imagining it, because Javier has singed my brain with his hotness—but I think I see a spark of interest in his gaze as he looks at her, and she looks back.

  “Javier, this is Maddie Lucas, my best friend,” I say.

  “Maddie.” Javier leans across the table and, bringing a hand to her arm, kisses her cheeks. “Encantado.”

  Maddie offers him a flirty grin. “Very nice meet you, Javier.”

  He nods at her empty glass. “Might I get you another drink, Maddie? What is that, a G and T?”

  “Yes,” she says. “It’s a gin and tonic. Another would be great—thank you very much.”

  “Vale,” Uncle Javier says with a smile.

  I lock eyes with Rafa. He’s fighting a grin.

  This could be interesting…

  Thank you for reading SPANISH LESSONS—I hope you laughed, you cried, you got turned on by the sassy bits. If you got especially turned on, please consider leaving an honest review on Amazon or Goodreads. I appreciate it!

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  Book #2 in the Study Abroad series—LESSONS IN GRAVITY, Maddie’s story—is available now here! Check out the next few pages for a super sexy excerpt. I think you’re going to like it!

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you very much for taking a chance on a new author. There is so much really, really great stuff out there in Romancelandia, and it’s no small thing that out of the thousands of books you could’ve bought, you bought mine. I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you.

  I wrote SPANISH LESSONS on a steady diet of Justin Bieber (sorry not sorry, but Purpose is probably my fave album of 2015) and memories from my own study abroad adventures.

  I graduated college almost ten years ago, but Vivian’s struggle to follow her heart and her interests at twenty years old still resonates with me. In some ways, Viv is the most autobiographical character I’ve ever written. I, too, was acutely aware of my competitive classmates’ accomplishments and ambitions. I, too, succumbed to the pressure of keeping up with them.

  Unlike Vivian, I didn’t pursue my passion—writing—until I was twenty-five or so (and only very recently did I pursue it fearlessly). But there was a time in college when I felt most connected to my romantic, writerly self—and that was when I studied abroad in Spain. It was one of the most magical moments of my life, which is part of the reason why I wrote a “Study Abroad” New Adult series. (The other part is that I love to read New Adult!)

  If you have the chance to study or travel abroad, don’t hesitate. Do it. Do it for a summer, a semester, a long weekend. As Vivian Bingley found out, it will change your life in ways you can’t imagine.

  Sorry for the rambling note—I’ll stop now. But thank you, thank you, thank you again for picking up SPANISH LESSONS. And if you have three minutes to spare, listen to the Bieb’s “Where Are Ü Now” while rereading the club bathroom/vagina fallout scene (I listened to it on repeat while writing that sassy bit). You’re welcome.

  Besitos,

  Jessica

  Turn the page for a preview of LESSONS IN GRAVITY (Study Abroad #2)—Maddie and Javier’s story, available here!

  Maddie

  August

  Atlanta, Georgia

  I crank my cranky old Volvo into park on the driveway. Looking up, I see my dad’s BMW parked in front of the garage, gleaming beneath the hot stare of the Georgia sun.

  My stomach clenches.

  That’s weird. He’s supposed to be at work. Dad rarely, if ever, gets home before seven on weeknights. What is he doing home at three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon?

  I look at our house through my grimy windshield. It looks the same as it always does: an enormous, graceful sweep of limestone and shutters and cedar shake. The prettiest house in the neighborhood. A dream house, where my parents made their dreams come true. It’s actually what spurred my interest in architecture. I dream of designing a smaller but just as perfect house for the perfect family I’ll raise there someday.

  Everything looks fine. But as I duck out of my car, the heat gripping me in its oven-like vise, I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

  That something bad is about to happen.

  Stop it, I tell myself. It’s just leftover nerves from a manic summer internship. Today was my last day at a small residential builder. I wasn’t crazy about it, to be honest. But for the most part, the really good internships—the ones at the big architecture firms—are reserved for rising college seniors, and I’ll only be a junior this year. Luckily my dad has contacts at a few firms here in Atlanta, and he’s promised to help me land a primo internship for next summer.

  That kind of internship will help me stand out when I apply to grad school. So will a really solid thesis—a thesis that explores historic preservation, maybe, or sustainable development. I’m hoping, secretly, that my upcoming study abroad adventure—a semester in Madrid!—will provide the inspiration I need to kick start that all-important project.

  I enter through the side door. The house is cool and quiet. Too quiet.

  Holding my breath, I creep down the hall. Past the cavernous butler’s pantry, the wine room, the powder room with the hand-painted French wallpaper that landed our house on the cover of Beautiful Homes and Gardens. I see two crystal tumblers, one empty, the other filled with a few fingers of brown liquor, on the kitchen counter.

  Huh.

  I look up at a muffled thud from the floor above, followed by a trill of female laughter. My parents’ bedroom. They must be doing—ew, ew, ew—only God knows what.

  Apparently dad came home for a little afternoon delight. A quick drink and a quicker you-know-what.

  Seriously ew.

  I hurry down the hall to the family room. I plop on the couch and dig my phone out of my bag. I can’t shove the earbuds into my ears fast enough; the laughter has devolved to muffled moaning. I didn’t know my mom could make sounds like that.

  I mean, I get it, it’s probably a good thing my parents are still doing it. Their marriage is pretty perfect.

  Still. The ick factor of hearing your parents go at it is a million times many more millions.

  Blasting my girl Adele, I catch up on texts, social media stuff, some email about Madrid (I leave in less than a week!). I’m more excited than nervous, but I feel a little bit like I did the summer before I started my freshman year at Meryton University. I’m anxious to know what my new life is going to be like; I’m uneasy about leaving behind a pretty sweet and cushy life here.

  I glance up from my phone, blinking, and see my dad making his way down the back staircase. He’s tugging at the fly of his khakis.

  I blink again when I see a dark-haired woman following closely behind him. She’s buttoning up her shirt.

  She is not my mother.

  My heart kicks against my ribs, a hollow, panicked beat as the realization hits me. Someone was definitely doing it upstairs with my dad.

  That someone wasn’t my mom.

  My dad is sleeping with a woman who is not my mother.

  The saliva in my mouth thickens. Holy shit.

  He draws up short when his eyes catch on mine.

  “Maddie,” he says.

  “Oh, Christ,” the woman mutters, and turns to scurry back up the stairs.

  “Dad?” I say. My voice trembles. I feel like I’m getting sucked into the hole that just opened up inside me.

  He hooks his belt through its monogrammed buckle as he descends the last step.

  “It’s not what you think,” he says. “Before you misunderstand what you just saw—”

  “
What is there to misunderstand?” I rip the earbuds from my ears with fingers that shake. “What the fuck, dad?”

  His eyes narrow. “Don’t you dare talk to me that way—”

  “Who is she?” I say. “How long? I don’t understand.”

  I don’t. Our friends call my parents Barbie and Ken. They are perfect in every way. Even their meet cute is perfect: they met at a tailgate at the University of Georgia, when dad’s fraternity and mom’s sorority set up camp beside each other in a parking lot outside the stadium. Dad proposed the day after they graduated on the fifty yard line.

  “Like something out of a fairy tale,” my grandmother said.

  A fairy tale I believe in. Deeply. Passionately.

  A fairy tale I want for myself—the perfect marriage, the pretty house, the two kids and the dog and the white picket fence. Say all you want about true love and how it only exists in the movies, but I disagree. My parents share that kind of love. They are perfect. We our perfect. We are the perfect family.

  Only we aren’t, I guess. Maybe we never were.

  My dad is sleeping with someone who isn’t my mother.

  My dad levels me with his from across the room. The look in his eyes makes my pulse run cold. He doesn’t look repentant, or embarrassed; he doesn’t show any of the emotions you would expect to see in a man just caught cheating on his wife of twenty five years.

  He looks angry. Disgusted even—not with himself, but with me.

  He’s never looked at me like this before.

  “You listen to me, Madeline.” His voice, like his eyes, is cold, calm. “This is an adult matter. It has absolutely nothing to do with you. Forget what you saw. You won’t speak of it again, understand? You are not to tell anyone.”

  I am frozen, stuck shaking on the couch. Who is this man? I don’t recognize him. The man looking at me like I’m dog shit on his shoe—saying such horrible, mean things to me—he’s not the man who raised me.