Page 23 of Deep In Love
Are you excited to embark tomorrow?Lame.
How’s your drink?Boring.
I land on the world’s dumbest question and fight the urge to drop my head in my hands.
“Do you like the weather?”
Dios mío, Mateo.
Charlie pouts. “It’ssohot,” she whines as she fans herself and pats the condensation from her glass against her forehead.
The urge to kiss Charlotte Bowen when she’s grumpy is overwhelming. That urge is present at all times, but when the corners of her mouth pull downward and her bottom lip sticks out, it screams “kiss me silly.”
I reach out and tug on the string of her sweatshirt.
“You could take this off,” I say, twirling the cord around my finger. “It’s eighty degrees.”
“No.” The response is quick and sharp. She chugs the remainder of her drink. “I’m fine.”
“I’m watching a droplet of sweat fall down your cheek. Why won’t you take the sweatshirt off?”
She gasps like I’ve caught her sneaking chocolate in the lab, and she whispers, “I-I only have a tank top under this.”
“I have seen arms before, bruja. I think I can handle it.”
Bright, irritated blue eyes snap to mine.
“That isnotwhat I meant, and you know it.”
I lift a brow, and after a moment of hesitation, Charlie pulls the hem over her head and wraps the sleeves around her waist.
The strength of her sigh could fill the sails of a schooner, and it’s obvious she was dying in the thick material. I may have said I could handle the sight of Charlie’s shoulders, but I’m a liar and already losing brain function, so I focus on the soft dimples of her cheek.
“Was that so hard?”
She purses her lips, her features blank. “No comment?”
I reel back from her defensive tone, shocked by the under layer of anger in it. “Comment about what? It was obvious you were sweating to death. Mentioning it again would be overkill.”
“No, about my scars.”
I peek at the expanse of her skin, and it’s all I can do to contain my gasp. A mosaic of scars—large and small, some ragged and deep, others only with the precision a surgeon could have—pepper her arms and chest.
For two years, I’ve studied Charlie like she’s a foreign language I’m desperate to understand, but I never knew about these scars, the ones that hide under clothing. Something twists deep in my chest at the recognition of the pain she must have endured to receive them.
Bile rises in my throat at the distrust and hesitation written all over her face.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, allowing truth to sink into my words.
While the marks cover a majority of her skin, there is something shockingly stunning about each and every one, abouther;how resilient and powerful she is to have endured what she has.
“W-what?” Her voice cracks and she slumps inward, crossing her arms to hug herself.
I reach out, tracing the small scar below her collarbone, and her skin pebbles beneath my touch.
“Each one of these scars,” I start, trailing a finger along a larger one on her upper arm, “tells a story. They tell me you are brave, resilient,increíble.”
Her throat bobs as she surveys the empty bar. Charlie rises, snatching her sweatshirt. “I need some air,” she says, before running back into the hotel.
