Page 8 of Deep In Love
Neptune, save me.
The bar spikes twenty degrees, and I kick my feet beneath the table to create a breeze to my flushed skin.
His throat bobs in my periphery as he gulps down the liquid, but I study a dollar bill on the wall to prevent myself from fixating on the concerningly erotic action.
“Better?” he asks, swiping a rogue drop of liquid from the corner of his mouth with his tongue.
It’s possible I track the way it darts out, how it drags along the seam of his lips. It’s also possible someone put crazy juice in my glass, because under no circumstances should I be admiring Mateo’s lips.
“I like the top,” he murmurs, low and deep, before reaching out his hand, hovering it over my wrist. When I make no protest—how could I when my throat is dry and his gaze is heavy on my skin?—he gently runs his fingers along the fabric, his thumb grazing the bare skin on my inner wrist.
I snatch my hand away, the spot where he touched me ablaze.
Why the fuck am I flustered?
The remainder of my drink slides easily down my throat, and I scurry away to the bar to get another margarita before the competition begins. I’m going to have to get plastered in Margaritaville to get through this night.
Our answer sheet lies on the chipped wooden high-top when I return. Amy is in full flirtation mode, and based on how Oliver leans into her, they’re both a lost cause to help.
Mateo glances in their direction before he makes a face, and I have to hide a small laugh behind a cough. Amy stole my spot to sit closer to Oliver, so I slide onto the barstool beside Mateo and pretend my head doesn’t dizzy from his cologne.
He scribbles on the top of the answer sheet.
Charles Darwin’s Bitches.
This time, I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles from my chest or ignore how my heart skips when Mateo responds with his own.
“Looks like it’s just the two of us,” he says, bumping my shoulder. “Think you can survive without falling in love with my intellect?”
“Neptune on a cracker, you are full of yourself,” I mumble, snatching the paper away. “They don’t call me the queen of trivia for nothing, Mateo.”
“Queen of trivia, huh? Do you need a king by any chance?”
I roll my eyes, ignoring his teasing, and the first question is called out.
“Who is the ‘king of football’? Or soccer, for us Americans.”
The blood drains from my face. Not a great start. I know very little about sports. I tap the pen against the table, scouring the corners of my mind for an answer.
“Well?” Mateo asks, drawing his lower lip between his teeth. “Got the answer?”
“You know I don’t.”
“Good thing we’re a team.” Mateo pulls the pen from my hand and writes in the answer. “It’s Pelé.”
I click my tongue, pretending I know who that is, but I make a mental note to search him tonight at home, because there is noway I am asking Mateo to enlighten me.
The questions fly, and we find a rhythm, competing to answer the question before the other. Occasionally, only Mateo knows the answer, but glee floods my system when the question is about the greatest boy band to ever exist.
“What are the names of the five members of One Direction?” the announcer asks, and Mateo’s face falls how mine did earlier.
I seize my opportunity.
“It’s time to woo me with your intellect,” I say, offering the pen.
“Bruja.”
“Mateo.”
