Page 6 of Deep In Love
“How about I help you grade a few papers before we destroy people in trivia?”
It would save me loads of time, but something stops me from accepting her help. Maybe it’s the excited gleam in her eye or my sliver of self-confidence in this outfit, but I slide my to-do list into the cavern of my mind.
It can give me debilitating anxiety tomorrow.
“Why don’t we go now and get a good table?”
Her brows rise in shock. “I know you’re stressed. We don’t have to go early.”
“I want to spend time with my best friend.”
A coral blush spreads across her cheeks, but she sprints to put on her shoes and grab her purse. She corrals me out the door like a border collie, afraid I might change my mind, but for the first time in forever, I want to go out.
“Charles, you’re staring.”
“I’m trying to melt him with my laser eyes,” I amend, swirling my tongue through the air to find my straw. If my focus falters, the lasers won’t disintegrate him.
Amy and I are hidden by dim lighting, perched at a high-top table in the back of Bongos, a local college bar.
Cheap tropical decor and signed dollar bills plaster the walls, and too-loud Jimmy Buffett filtering from old speakers drowns out the sound of chatter and shouted drink orders. Several groups settle in for trivia night and half-off drinks, but I cannot waste away in Margaritaville while my enemy encroaches on my territory.
Amy follows my line of sight until she’s also watching Mateo from across the bar, laughing with his friend. “I’ll never understand why you don’t like him. He’s kind and his accent is sexy.”
It isnotsexy. It makes my skin tingle—not in a seductive way, but rather like there are a million tiny venomous spiders roaming along my skin, poised to attack. His accent aside, Bongos ismybar. This is my kingdom, where I rule over all my other plebeians and show them who the queen of trivia is: Charlotte Louise Bowen.
“Do I need to pull out my list?”
“Have you added any new insane reasons?”
I shake my head. It’s still the same.
Ruined my dress with red wine and ran away rather than apologize.
Has more publications than me.
Mocks my hobbies.
Rules over hell.
Has annoyingly perfect hair.
“That’s what I thought. Maybe you see what you want to instead of what you’re meant to,” Amy says, fiddling with her flamingo earring. I pause my laser attack to school my best friend on why Mateo is, for a lack of better words, the most exacerbating human ever.
“We’ve been over this, Ames. The accent is to distract you from his true occupation as overlord of the underworld.”
His coffee-hued hair, just long enough to run your fingers through, and deep emerald eyes, bright like a rainforest, are a mask. Behind it is a teasing, cocky know-it-all who finds joy in one-upping me at every turn.
Mateo may have been appealing once, long, long ago, but that was before two years of sharing an office space, teasing comments, and his total annihilation of my favorite sundress.
A ruckus at the front of the room drags my attention away from reciting my list.
“We have an incredible turnout tonight,” the announcer booms into the microphone, “but not enough tables, so if you’re at a table with empty seats, please raise your hand.”
Amy waves hers high in the air like she’s on a deserted island and spotted a plane. It’s all I can do to stay in my chair while I yank her arm back to earth.
“Put your hand down,” I hiss. I don’t want to share a table with random people who might steal our answers. While I’m proud I left the apartment, and there have been zero crippling thoughts since we arrived, I am still here to win.
“Too late,” Amy sings, waving at whoever she summoned. My heart skips as Mateo and his friend walk toward our table.
