Page 87 of Deep In Love
“If you’re trying to insult me, you’re doing a poor job.”
Jett, Vivian, and Sofía watch us like we’re prime time TV, and the urge to kiss the victory off his face is overwhelming. The only thing stopping me is the others. I don’t think I’m ready for public displays of affection yet.
Mateo’s hand on my thigh was anxiety-inducing enough.
“You’ll pay for this, cariño,” I mutter, dropping my cards into the pile.
Mateo beams the same way he always does when I call him the silly nickname, like it’s the greatest word in the world.
“What? Are you going to curse me again?” The rest of the room fades away as he fake glares at me. “It wentso welllast time.”
“Listen, cariño,” I start, jabbing a finger at him, “I will cut your CPAP cord if you don’t—”
“That’s so sweet,” Sofía coos, glancing between Mateo and me.
Uh…I’m not sure how sweet my threat to destroy his medical equipment is.
Mateo pales, examining the walls with immense curiosity.
“What exactly is sweet, Sofía?”
I have an idea, but I want her to confirm my hypothesis. Mateo refuses to meet my stare. I’m not sure if I want to smack him, laugh, or kiss him. A combination of all three, really.
“That you call him cariño…” Sofía trails off, confused.
“What does cariñomean?” Jett asks.
“Yeah, Mateo. Whatdoescariñomean? Please, enlighten us.”
He knows he’s been caught, but when his glassy greens return to mine, they’re full of fire and passion.
“Sweetheart. Cariñotranslates to sweetheart or honey.”
“And would you like to tell the group what you told me it means?” I prod.
“Annoying asshole,” Mateo grumbles, though his expression is victorious as the group laughs.
Vivian nearly falls over in her seat, cackling like a hyena. Jett is snorting, his worn-out beanie slipping off his head as it’s tipped back in laughter. Sofía shakes her head at Mateo with a soft grin.
“Are you going to stop calling me the nickname?” he asks, his voice quiet. There’s a thread of uncertainty in the question, and I pause. Does he think I’m truly upset?
I rest my palm on his thigh, above the butterfly tattoo.
“No.” I squeeze his leg. “You’re my cariño. Both meanings,” I whisper, offering him a truth that frightens me.
He is both my annoying asshole and my sweetheart.
When Mateo exits the bathroom, I’m going to pounce on him like a cheetah attacking its prey, but slowly, because my joints ache from standing in the lab for hours and sitting crisscross in the uncomfortable chairs in the lounge.
It’s always a mistake to bend my knees and ankles for long periods of time, and my hip screams in its socket.
I’m standing right outside the door, waiting like a creep.
When people would talk about the incorrigible itch they felt with someone else, I always waved them off as lovesick fools who couldn’t separate physical attraction from emotional connection.
Now I’ve turned into one of those lovesick fools I’ve laughed at.
The door cracks open and he reappears, hair wet from his shower and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Gray sweatpants drape low on his hips, and his shoulders pull against the worn-down URI t-shirt.
