Our Secret Summer

by R.S. Grey

Genres: Siblings; Billionaires Romance; Contemporary Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

I’ve spent years stuck behind a desk, always doing the practical, predictable thing. But when my  sister’s untimely death leaves me with her unfinished bucket list, I have no choice but to throw caution to the wind and hop on a flight to sunny Ibiza. Attempting to carpe my diem on the shores of the Spanish Mediterranean, I waste no time making new friends and finding work at a popular nightclub.
 
Living out my sister’s dream summer shouldn’t be hard with her bucket list as my guide:
 
Go surfing? Done. 
Get a tattoo? If the list says so…
Fall in love?…Sorry, sis. No luck on that front.
 
That is, until I meet my surprisingly sexy boss Cristiano Moreno Winthrop. He’s completely off limits, but we can’t seem to stay away from each other. And between late-night talks, glittering parties on his yacht, and steamy stolen moments, I’m starting to think that I just might have found a way to finish that bucket list after all. But summer won’t last forever. Is what Cristiano and I have just a fling, or will it last beyond the season?
 
Escape to Ibiza in this sparkling summertime romance, perfect for fans of Christina Lauren and Abby Jimenez.

Release date: May 5, 2026

Publisher: Requited

Print pages: 352

Sample

Everyone in the crowded bar has a cold drink and a group of friends. I’m the only one sitting alone, though I might not be for long. A handsome stranger has been trying to catch my eye for the last few minutes. His gaze slips down my slinky black dress with unabashed interest, and I try not to get my hopes up. This is my third night out on the town since arriving on Ibiza, and so far I have nothing to show for it. No hookups, no oh-god-don’t-stops, not even a measly kiss. But something has to happen soon. I’m growing desperate; “wild sex” is on the bucket list, after all.

But tonight? Do I really have it in me?

I reach for my sangría as the stranger approaches, and I barely contain my wince when he launches into a string of Spanish. It’s unfortunate considering yo no hablo español.

Ibiza is a tiny island off the coast of Spain. Everyone here speaks Spanish and Catalan. The fact that I didn’t Duolingo my life away for the last few weeks before my arrival was a complete oversight on my part.

“¿Inglés?” I ask, offering up a tentative smile.

The guy shakes his head with a disappointed frown, but he doesn’t back away. He’s not going to let a little thing like a language barrier block his shot. “No.”

Okay. Time to metaphorically crack my knuckles and dig deep—all the way back to that half a year of Spanish I took in seventh grade.

“¿Cómo te llamas?” Thank you, Shakira, for incorporating conversational Spanish in your 2000s hits.

“Luis.”

He holds his hand out for me to take; it’s a little moist, but I can’t blame the guy. Ibiza is having an unusually warm start to summer. It’s half past ten, the sun set hours ago, and yet the bar is stifling. There’s no AC and the body heat alone is enough to make me want to pour an ice bucket over my head.

“I’m Isabel,” I tell him with an easygoing smile.

Luis withdraws his hand, we each take a swig of our cold drinks, and what follows is nothing short of the most hilarious form of flirting that’s ever existed. Over the span of ten minutes we gesticulate wildly with our hands while cobbling together a rudimentary conversation.

“Do you live here?” becomes “Doooo youuuu liiiivvve heeerrre?”

I’m not translating my English into Spanish so much as into whale-ish. Following up the question by pointing down to the ground proves fruitless.

Luis looks down, following my finger. Then he grimaces. “No… entiendo.”

It’s clear we’re not going to Rosetta Stone our way into romance here. If he were a little more tempting, I’d just cut to the chase and gesture between our lips, but alas, Luis doesn’t really do it for me. He’s cute, sure, but unfortunately there’s no spark.

It’s not long before Luis’s friends come over to collect him, no doubt sensing his failure from across the room. I assume they’re heading off to the next bar. There are many, many more along this strip of road, and countless more multilingual partners for him to pick from. Luis gives me an apologetic look before cutting his losses and making a break for it.

When he’s gone, I deflate and glance down at the antique ring on my right hand.

“Sorry, Winnie,” I whisper under my breath before downing the last of my sangría and slipping off the barstool.

Oh well. So night three in paradise didn’t go as planned. No problema.

See? I’m already thinking in Spanish. I’m settling in!

Out on the sidewalk, I turn left and teeter my way back to the hostel so I can regroup. The area is packed with people. By Ibiza standards, it’s still early, practically the afternoon. I don’t have to call it a night. I could dip into any one of these bars and try my luck with another flirty Spaniard, but I’m exhausted. I still haven’t adjusted to my new time zone.

I landed on Ibiza three days ago with a duffel bag crammed full of summer outfits, skimpy bikinis, and cold, hard cash. I have two thousand euros and a plan in place. I’ve just yet to actually implement it. I wanted to give myself a day or two to adjust, but now I’m running low on excuses.

Tomorrow I need to start my job search. I can’t keep blowing my money or this whole thing will be over before I’ve even given myself a real chance to accomplish anything. So far, I’ve been frugal, but it’s not enough.

The hostel where I found temporary housing is thirty-one euros a night, and while I can eat out for practically nothing (less, even, if I convince myself that glass of sangría was dinner), it still adds up. I only have my cash to rely on. I really don’t want to use my credit cards or debit card because I don’t want to run the risk that they’ll be tracked. It’s a little ridiculous I’m even worrying about such a thing. It’s not because I’m a marked woman or anything. I’m not on the lam, not in witness protection, not running from a mafia hitman.

It’s simple: I lied to my parents and fled the States so I could have a no-holds-barred scandalous summer abroad. If I’m going to pull this off, I can’t take any chances. I have to stay under the radar as much as possible. I probably shouldn’t even be telling people my real name, but it’s not like Isabel is all that conspicuous. I bet there are plenty of us running around this island. I only need to worry if someone asks for my last name, and then I’ll lie. Isabel De Vere doesn’t exist here.

I reach the cross streets where I usually take a left to get back to my hostel. Instead, I continue on into the nicer area of Playa d’en Bossa, toward the fine dining and fancy bars I’ve purposely avoided over the last three days in an effort to keep from overspending.

From what I’ve gathered, most of Ibiza is rustic and quaint. Its simplicity is beautiful. There’s a reason they call this place the White Island. Most of the buildings are whitewashed with lime to reflect heat, much the same way they do on other Mediterranean islands. But while the sea and views are breathtaking, for the most part Ibiza is eclectic and unpretentious. Cobblestone streets house family-run businesses and small cafés. Tourists walk around in flip-flops and bathing suits. There are hostels and open-air markets and tapas bars. The island is quiet and sleepy in the mornings, but at night, it’s loud and vibrant and already jam-packed with people, which is wild considering it’s early May and it’ll only get more crowded as the summer heats up.

Beyond the simple, unassuming neighborhoods, I know there’s another side of Ibiza. I’ve seen glimpses of the expensive homes and yachts, but it’s only now as I walk deeper into Playa d’en Bossa that I realize there’s real money here, the kind I left behind back in California.

I shiver despite the heat and wrap my arms protectively around my waist. It’s strange to be wandering on my own on the sidewalk like any normal person. Three days and my new reality still hasn’t sunk in.

I’m used to traveling with a shadow in the form of Steve, a six-foot-two beefy ex-Marine who’s said maybe three words to me in all his time employed as my family’s bodyguard. And I know how that sounds: sexy, right? A hot dude who knows when to shut up? Yes, please. But Steve is a sweet man with a sweet wife and also my dad’s age. Anyway, he started traveling with my family and me when I was twelve. He isn’t with me all the time, just when my parents think it’s imperative. This situation would definitely call for Steve. Ibiza is halfway around the world from Montecito. I’m all alone here on the island. I know no one and I’m carrying a purse with—oh look at that—euros literally spilling out of it. Dammit. I zip it up and position it safely in front of my chest. To be clear, I stowed most of the cash I brought in a locker back at my hostel, but according to all the research I’ve done (aka reading mystery and thriller books), you’re supposed to divide it up in case something happens to one of your stashes.

Now—even at my very adult age of twenty-six—if my parents knew I was here, if they knew what I was doing right this minute, they’d have me hauled back to California before I could say, “¡Una sangría más, por favor!” They were strict before everything happened with my sister; now they’re nearly unbearable. It’s my mom, mainly. The day before I left for this secret trip, I arrived at my parents’ house for dinner only a few minutes late, and my mom still cocked her eyebrow and watched me take my seat like she’d been sitting there waiting for me so long her bones had turned brittle from disuse.

“Where were you? Why were you late? And must you wear that hat to the dinner table?”

The thrifted trucker hat was the only thing keeping my damp hair out of my face. Even still, I took it off and slung it onto the head of the ornate golden goose that has, for some reason, sat in the center of our colossal dinner table since I was a child.

My dad winked at me over the edge of his wineglass. He’s not one to audibly side against my mom. The man has to live with her, after all, but he likes to let me know quietly—off the record—that he’s on my side.

“Never mind all of that. Let’s move on… I hope you wore sunscreen today.”

I tried to ignore my mother, but when she’s in a mood, there’s no stopping her.

“Positively lathered,” I lied while accepting the seared scallops she was trying to pass my way.

I had been out on the water most of the afternoon, and though I took the time to replace my wet suit with a sundress before sitting down at the De Vere dinner table, I’m sure I still smelled like a washed-up sea animal.

“Any good ones come your way?” my dad asked.

I scrunched my nose. “Yeah, a few nice swells. Crowded, though. Some ass—”

“Language, Isabel,” my mom cut in sharply.

“Some guy nearly took me out.”

“I’ll go out with you Saturday,” my dad promised.

My heart lurched in my chest. “My flight leaves early…”

I was referring to the flight that was sanctioned by them, not the flight I secretly took to Ibiza.

He looked crushed. “Right. I forgot.”

“What about tomorrow?” I asked with hopeful arched brows.

His mouth formed a grim flat line. “I’m in meetings all day.”

I chewed on my bottom lip and nodded, trying to play off my disappointment. I love surfing with my dad—it’s our thing—and it was a little heartbreaking to realize it’d be a while before we could take to the water together.

Just before I picked up my fork to eat, my dad spoke up with a conspiratorial smile. “I’ll shift my schedule around. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Really?” I grinned. “You’re on.”

That moment feels a million miles away now. I don’t have the security of knowing my parents are right around the corner. It’s just me here.

Judging by the pulsing music and the dense crowd gathering on the sidewalk up ahead, I’m nearing my final destination. Aura is Ibiza’s most famous nightclub. The legendary line I’ve heard about is indeed wrapped around the side of the building. Opportunistic street vendors have set up shop to feed the masses while they wait anxiously for their turn to try to shimmy their way past the bouncers stationed at the entrance of the club.

I first heard about Aura from my roommates at the hostel. The morning after I arrived, I listened to them strategizing inventive ways to cut the line. None of them had managed to make it inside yet, which seemed wild considering they’d already been here for a few weeks. Is it really that hard?

“Is it really better than all the other nightclubs on the island?” I asked, curious.

I was new to Ibiza, but even I knew nightlife sprawled in every direction and you were never more than a few feet away from a cold beer and a lively crowd. Why bother waiting in line?

The girls in the hostel looked at me like I was the most naive person they’d ever come across, just completely devoid of brain cells.

“It’s Aura—yes, of course it’s better than any other place. Celebrities, popular DJs, hot guys…” The blond rolled her eyes at her friends like, Can you believe her?

“It’s the place to see and be seen on the island. It’s really exclusive.”

It was hard to keep a straight face; the way they were going on about it made the place seem just a tad too overhyped. I’ve been in elite circles my whole life—Soho House and Surf Lodge were my sister’s favorite places to meet up for a casual weeknight dinner—but even still, my roommates’ excitement about Aura piqued my interest. Now, as I stand across the street from the club, taking in the entire scene, I begin to understand.

Aura is nestled in the middle of a long strip of cool restaurants and bars. The front entrance is nothing more than a pitch-black tunnel clubgoers disappear into if they’re lucky enough to make the cut. When people reach the front of the line, excited that they might finally get their chance to slip inside, they’re met with immediate resistance. Five bouncers in coordinating black suits and earpieces bar entry. Being a hot woman dressed in a sexy outfit isn’t a free pass. It seems security will turn people away for no reason at all.

“Let’s try again tomorrow,” I hear a girl tell her friend. “I can call Jeremy and see if he still knows that guy who can get us on the list.”

Clearly, entering Aura is less about going to a club and more about enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Instead of leaving, I let my nose lead me over to one of the street vendors. Three euros gets me a heaping pile of croquettes, deep-fried and filled with serrano ham and a creamy béchamel sauce. I’m too impatient to let them cool. What are third-degree burns compared to culinary magic?

I savor them back in my spot across the street and train my eyes on Aura’s entrance. I want to see what’s on the other side of the black tunnel, but it’s no use. By the time I’m done with my dinner—enjoying every crumb—I still haven’t found the answer.

I decide to cut my losses. I’m thirsty and tired and I know I won’t glean any more information from where I am, so I toss my trash and turn to head back to the hostel. I’m two steps down the sidewalk when a sleek gunmetal-gray SUV pulls up outside the club. There’s been plenty of traffic along the road all night, but something about this fancy car has me curious enough to turn back for a second. From where I stand across the street, it’s hard to get a good look at who’s exiting the back seat, but surely it’s a celebrity. The girls at the hostel told me famous people come to Aura all the time, right? For all I know, I’m about to lay eyes on Paul Mescal or Bradley Cooper. I’d even take one of those Marvel superhero dudes. Ant-Man or whoever, I’m not picky.

I’m deeply invested, enough so that I walk closer to the curb and crane my neck just in time to watch a man confidently step out onto the sidewalk. Who are we looking at, ladies and gents? This guy certainly has the height and build to be cast in a superhero movie.

He’s wearing a loosely fitted black linen shirt with short cuffed sleeves that show off the few tattoos decorating his tan, muscular arms. His black pants look bespoke the way they fit him. I’ve barely come to terms with the back of him when he turns toward the vehicle, and my lips part on a stunned inhale.

Holy sh—

I blink and stand there as goose bumps spread over my skin, prickling beneath my silky dress.

His eyes. They’re rimmed with dark lashes and framed by equally dark brows.

His black hair is neatly parted, and his clean-shaven face is the perfect backdrop for his sharp jawline, made all the more beautiful when paired with his high cheekbones. He is blatantly, obscenely, dangerously attractive.

He’s wearing a stern expression as one of the bouncers comes over to talk to him, and in that moment—this snapshot—he looks like he’s arrived straight from the gates of hell, confidence surrounding him like smoke.

A few other people slink out of the SUV after him. I don’t have to wonder if their group will make it past the bouncers. The men in suits part upon their arrival like their very lives depend on it.

Just as the stranger and his friends disappear into the tunnel, the sights and sounds of Ibiza that were muffled by his arrival come rushing back like a cresting wave. I shake my head and smile. Then I laugh. How silly. How wonderful. I wish—not for the first time—my sister were here with me. She and I would take one look at each other and crack up. She would have a lot to say about that man, and I imagine her thoughts as I turn back toward my hostel.

I don’t feel bad leaving Aura behind. I’ll be back first thing in the morning to apply for a job.

This day has gone down the drain and I haven’t even had breakfast. My plan was to wake up bright and early and get a jump start on everything I need to accomplish. I’d dressed and was brushing my teeth when I went to check in on the money in my safe… only to find I’d been robbed.

I still can’t believe it. Robbed!

I’m standing at my hostel’s front desk with my packed duffel bag at my feet, trying to rein in my emotions. I’m this close to losing it on the scrawny front desk clerk.

In front of me, the kid—he can’t be older than seventeen—stands waiting for his boss to arrive while trying very hard to not meet my eyes. A side door opens and out waddles the man of the hour, Mr. Hostel Manager himself, stuffed into a white tank top stretched so tightly across his soft chest that it’s almost see-through. His coarse chest hair spreads up toward his neck.

“What?” he barks at the kid.

The kid points to me, and the man turns in my direction.

“What’s this about?” he asks, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his saggy pants and lighting one up as he steps closer to the counter. He exhales smoke near my face, and I grind my molars together so hard I’m surprised they don’t splinter.

“I woke up this morning to find that someone took cash out of the locker in my room.”

If I’m a little curt, it’s only because I’ve already explained the robbery twice: once to the girls in my room and again to the clerk. Beyond swearing they didn’t steal it, my roommates had nothing helpful to say and no words of sympathy.

“You shouldn’t be traveling with that much cash in the first place.”

Yes, thank you for that helpful tip.

The manager taps the end of his cigarette onto a blackened ashtray between us.

“All of it?” he asks, sounding tired and annoyed.

It’s early; there’s a chance I’m the only reason he’s awake right now, but I don’t feel bad.

I train my voice into sounding calm. “No, not all of it. Like I told your employee, I’m five hundred euros short.”

The manager scratches his patchy beard, unbothered by my discovery. “So you have some left?”

I resist snapping at him. What does it matter if they took some of my money or all of it? I was robbed!

“You sure someone even took it?” he continues, cocking his head and eyeing me like I’m the one who shouldn’t be trusted here. “Could have counted wrong.”

Surely he can tell I’m about to explode. At any moment, steam will shoot out of my ears. I know the exact amount of cash that was in my locker last night, and the moment I went to check it again this morning, I knew something was off. I counted the bills immediately and found I was five hundred short.

“I’m sure,” I tell the manager, barely masking my indignation.

He nods, tapping out his cigarette again, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay.”

“Okay?!”

He shrugs. “Not much I can do. I’ll warn guests about it.”

“We should file a police report at the very least.”

He smiles as he glances at the clerk, then looks back to me, holding up his hand in invitation. “Be my guest. Theft that small… you’ll be waiting awhile.”

I hate that he’s right. Clearly, the police have a lot more pressing matters to deal with. I’m wasting daylight, precious time I could be using to land a job at Aura. Instead, I sit twiddling my thumbs and flipping through old, yellowed magazines in the hostel’s foyer—avoiding the gaze of the clerk—for two and a half hours before anyone shows up. The manager listens in as I describe the situation to the police officer, and he can barely contain his self-righteous smile when the officer makes it clear I should be glad it wasn’t worse.

“A few hundred euro? Count yourself lucky,” the officer says in thickly accented English, ripping off a carbon copy of his police report so he can hand it to me. “My advice? Find a new hostel.”

I look down at the duffel bag at my feet and nod. “Yeah… planning on it.”

I don’t demand to know how he plans to investigate the theft. Chances are, I won’t like what I hear. There are any number of possibilities for what happened: My roommates saw me input my locker combination and decided they’d skim a little of my money while I was sleeping, or the locker is broken and the hostel staff routinely steal from their guests, or… worse. I shudder.

The moment I leave the hostel, I decide to drop it. I fold up the police report and stuff it into my duffel bag. In a way, the manager and the officer are right. It could be worse, but it’s still bad. I have even less wiggle room now. I need to focus. I have to find a place to stay and secure a job by the end of today, and I just wasted the better part of my morning waiting for that officer. I’m hungry, cranky, and also late calling my grandmother. I told her I’d check in today; that was part of her demands about allowing me my summer abroad, so once I buy a cheap but delicious café con leche in a quiet café, I dial her number. She picks up after the third ring.

“Loren Isabel De Vere, it’s half past eleven. I thought we agreed on nine thirty?”

I smile at her comforting accent, a unique amalgamation of Spanish and French from spending equal portions of her life in both countries. “I was busy.”

“Doing what? You’d better have a good explanation. You’re already on thin ice with me.”

My grandmother, Caterina De Vere, is one of the most terrifying women I’ve ever met. Never mind that she’s in her late seventies and occasionally needs the help of a cane to get around; she has a fiery spirit and a lot of attitude, and quite frankly, I think she could take me in a fight. Especially if she had that cane.

Right now, this very minute, I’m supposed to be in France with her. That’s been the plan for months. I was going to fly out in early May and spend a long summer with her at her estate in Marseille, but I called her two days before my flight from LAX with my change of plans.

“I’m not coming,” I told her, launching into things right away, scared I’d lose the nerve the longer we spoke.

“What do you mean? Is there an issue with the flight?”

“No issue. I—”

“These airlines have no respect for their customers,” she declared, quickly and staunchly coming to her own wrong conclusions. “Changing flights, delays nonstop. Last month, I was scheduled—”

“Lita,” I pleaded, cutting her off. “It’s not the airline’s fault. I changed my ticket.”

Her string of rapid-fire Spanish was completely lost on me, even more so when it devolved into French. I might be the spitting image of my grandmother—jet-black hair, long and straight; round green eyes; perpetual dimples—but she grew up in Barcelona and I grew up in Montecito. We’re from two different worlds.

Her voice softened. “I don’t understand. If there’s an issue with the travel days or…”

Her sentence dwindled as I tried to regain my courage.

“Can I trust you?” I asked quietly.

“Of course.” Her tone hardened with suspicion. “Mi niña, what’s going on? Is there trouble with you? All these months I’ve been expecting you here. I can’t wait to see you.”

I sighed, purposefully pushing aside the niggling guilt her words were spurring in me. “I want to see you, too. I miss you so much, and I will come visit you, but… I have this plan.”

She hmmed. “What plan? It sounds interesting.”

I smiled, knowing if anyone was going to cheer me on in this wild endeavor, it would be Lita. “I want to go to Ibiza. I want to spend my summer there, for Winnie.”

“Oh.” I could hear her heartache in that word. Then, a moment later, “You should, Isabel. Ibiza is so special. You know I love that island. I spent a lot of time there as a girl, traveling with Dolores before I met your Tito. You remember my stories?”

I laughed, recalling all the times she spoke of her youth, recounting how the men would crowd around when she and her best friend, Dolores, danced in their flamenco dresses. The way she tells it, she could have made any man fall in love with her, but she wasn’t interested in that. She and Dolores wanted to be rebels, uninhibited and wild during a time when women in general had very few freedoms, and I’ve always admired that about her.

“Yes, I remember. Your Ibiza stories are legendary. What was that one about you and Dolores trying to make secret sangría in a huge bucket out in your father’s shed? And one of your goats ended up drinking half of it?”

She hissed a warning. “Don’t force me to regret telling you so much. Now, do your. . .