Page 50 of The Sweet Spot

My eyes pop open and I smile like a total goof, because everything about this moment feels magic. “Better than churros, even.”

He runs his thumb gently over the corner of my lips. “You’ve got a little…”

“Back off my date, Cardoso.”

I spin guiltily at Dallas’ voice, but he’s got a big old grin splitting his face. His cheeks are red, a sure sign he’s started drinking and for a second I’m kind of annoyed he ran off and got started without me.

Then again, I’ve been here doing the same thing with Luca.

They meet in a classic handshake-man-hug, smacking each other’s backs, and then Luca jerks his chin at Dallas. “Where ya been, man? I wouldn’t have had to keep yourdate,” –he glances at me–“company if you hadn’t left her to fend for herself.” He’s teasing, but there’s an edge to his voice.

To my surprise, Dallas submits, throwing me an apologetic glance. “Sorry, Wren. I didn’t think I’d be gone so long. I saw some kids I went to highschool with—we used to sail together.”

“No worries.” I squeeze his arm, not wanting him to feel too bad. Dallas is like a puppy—adorable, easily distracted, impossible to stay mad at.

“I was actually gonna get you a drink, but it looks like you already have one,” he says, eyeing my martini.

“Yeah, Luca hooked me up.”

Dallas cocks his head, looking from my drink to Luca’s. “Whatta gentleman,” he drawls. Wrapping his arm around my shoulder, he brings his lips to my ear. “Let’s go find some fun.”

I nod breathlessly, staring at Luca.

But I don’t know who I’m saying yes to.

* * *

The next few hours are a giddy, alcohol-soaked blur. After supplying me with a second, and then a third chocolate martini—I suspect this is his way of upping Luca—Dallas insists on giving me the grand tour of his parents’ home. We start in the wine cellar and then ascend to his childhood bedroom on the second floor. We finish in the attic, where there are plush, old couches and an enormous telescope for dedicated stargazing.

By ten o’clock we’ve joined the dancing crowd in the solarium, cutting a rug with a spirited rendition of the Jitterbug. Dallas is suspiciously good at this, going and going until I’m laughing so hard I can hardly stand. I begout, escaping to the side of the room where I take pictures of him in all his glory.

Once we’ve returned to the backyard, we hit up each tent to sample their numerous and sundry delicacies. Several of Dallas’ friends catch up with us near an elaborate firepit tucked away in the farthest corner of the yard. There’s a marshmallow roasting station set up beside it, naturally, but at this point I couldn’t eat another thing if I tried.

Luca, Kellan and Matt are here with their friends, too. Luca’s tawny eyes glimmer at me from across the fire. He’s loosened his tie, and several strands of slicked-back hair have fallen free, giving him a rather rakish rich-boy look. We’ve run into each other more than a few times over the course of the evening, and every gaze he shoots my way grabs my heart and wrings it violently. What is it about Luca Cardoso? Is it just his ridiculously fine face? Is it pheromones?

Or is it something else? Some sort of supernatural chemistry, an auspicious connection that keeps us gravitating toward one another like orbiting stars?

I don’t know, but there’s a hunger in those eyes, one he must see reflected in mine because after a while he puts his drink down and makes his way over.

Luca

I’ve been watching Wren and Dallas all night, and I’m not sure what to make of their relationship. She said they were friends, but I’m a guy so I know how to read guys. Dallas knows how to read guys, too, and the second he saw that there was something brewing between Wren and me, he started marking his territory.

Still, it seems casual. Fun. If they’re just flirting, I might make a move. But if they’re sleeping together, I’m hands off. I’ve never been the kind of guy to steal someone else’s girl, and after what went down with Logan and Brooke the thought turns my stomach even more. It doesn’t matter that I’m not as close to Dallas as I was to Logan, or that their relationship might not be what mine was with Brooke. Point is, that’s not me.

Maybe there’s a reason Wren and I never seem to be available for one another. Maybe our paths are destined to always cross but never align.

But then why do we keep running into each other like this? And why does it always feel like it’s impossible to look at anything but her whenever she’s around?

She can’t keep her eyes off me, either. Even now, she sits there across the fire, her phone in one hand and a flute of champagne in the other. There’s a sparkling world of people and chatter and music and lights, but she’s staring right back at me like she can’t look away.

I’ve never had problems getting women. When I was little, Vovo Ana—my grandmother— predicted I’d be a ladies’ man one day, and while Mãe bucked against that prophecy, I can’t say it’s untrue—I definitely went through a wild phase in high school. Still, I know what it’s like to be wantedonlyfor my looks, and it’s something I’ve grown more discerning about as I’ve gotten older.

Sometimes I think that was the heart of the issue with Brooke. Maybe our relationship was destined to end because we never really took the time to go deep enough—too much of our relationship was superficial, surface level. I can blame Brooke for a lot of things, but I can’t blame her for that.

Wren is a little harder to read, but I remember our conversation on the boardwalk. There was something about the questions she asked that suggested her interest went beyond the way I look. I’m glad she likes the way I look, though. I like her everything. If she caught my eye as a fresh-faced cutie in cut-offs, how can I resist her looking like a 1950’s pinup dream with that glossy, red pout, and tight little dress. It’s nearly impossible to keep my gaze from drifting down her long, crossed legs.

“You gonna stare at Sweet Spot all night or you gonna talk to her?” whispers Matty, his hot breath too close to my ear for comfort. “You’re being creepy as fuck.”

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