Page 25 of Deep In Love
On one occasion, I wink, curious to witness her reaction, and it could have been the sunset or fairy lights hanging above us, but I could have sworn her cheeks were rosy.
Moments like that lead me to believe we could have a shot. She’s attracted to me, at least physically, if her lingering stares are any indication, but that’s a long shot from seeing me as a partner.
The song ends and the beginning notes of “Dancing Queen”by ABBA ring out. Charlie’s head jerks toward the band, and she bobs her head to the energetic beat.
She loves this song.
Her soft smile, and the blush earlier, is what drags me from my seat to stand in front of her, palm outstretched.
“Dance with me, bruja,” I demand, my words holding a silent plea.
Take my hand. Show me I have a shot.
“I can’t dance.” Her gaze holds a million questions as it darts between my face and palm. It’s not a denial, so I grab her hand and drag her onto the dance floor. “Mateo, what are you doing?” She squeals, “Let mego.”
“Not until you’re having fun,” I yell over the music, spinning her around twice until her marvelous giggle fills the air.
When she’s facing me again, I place a hand on her hip, guiding us through a rough salsa. She steps on my toes and stumbles, trying to pull away, but I draw her closer, quickening the pace until she finds a rhythm.
I shimmy my shoulders before launching her into another spin, hoping I get a smile this time, a real one where the joy overtakes her. Bafflement flashes across Charlie’s face before it’s replaced by the version I crave.
“Having fun yet?”
“Yes,” she responds like she’s shocked by her answer. “Now spin me again.”
I heed her demand a dozen times by the end of the night, her delightful giggles replaying in my mind until the moment I fall asleep.
Chapter 8
Charlie
My fists bang against Mateo’s hotel door, my bags thrown at my feet. We are going to be late if he spends any more time on his hair and doesn’t move his ass toward the exit.
“We need to go,” I yell through the wooden barrier. “Mateo!”
My patience is not thin, it’s gone, eaten away by a poor night’s sleep, all because of Mateo and the uncomfortable sensation he left lodged in my throat when he called my scars beautiful.
No one should be awake at five thirty in the morning with no access to caffeine, and Mr. My-Hair-Needs-To-Be-Perfect is making it worse by adding to my baseline level of anxiety.
It’s already elevated compared to the average person, but it’s at an all-time high right now.
Everything is changing, including my relationship with Mateo, and I’m off-kilter and unsteady. I had to escape to the lobby yesterday to settle my racing heart, to digest the gentleness of his touch and the sincerity in his declaration. Jett distracted me with his antics and long-winded stories for most of the evening, butwhen Mateo pulled me onto the dance floor, my heart raced again, thumping in my chest in time with the music.
Spun round and round, I replayed his words in my mind: beautiful, brave, resilient, incredible. I almost wanted to believe him.
“Are you trying to wake the entire hotel?”
Spinning, I find Mateo leaning against the wall with coffee in both hands. “Do the little stomp again. It’s adorable.”
A cocky grin teases his lips, and my knees almost buckle from the strength of it.
Murder is illegal.
I do not look good in orange.
There are no iced lattes in prison.
The third reason reverberates deep within my soul, and I snatch my duffel bag, bypassing Mateo to the elevator.
