Page 32 of Bedding Rose
He’s so… so … I don’t even have words for what he is.
My heels click on the concrete as I shove open the door leading from the hotel lobby to the courtyard in the middle of it. I leave behind the warmth of the indoors and the coat Mom insisted I check at the counter. I try to abandon all my infuriated thoughts about Angelo as well.
At least he’s off with Quique, checking on the audio equipment and carrying heavy boxes for the next half an hour. I get a reprieve.
I take a deep, intentional breath, emptying my mind of the confusing hodgepodge my thoughts become when he’s nearby. Right now, my task is simple: Ensure the seating arrangements match my mother’s little master map so that everyone has a good time.
I pull out the sheet of paper her campaign manager, Debbie, handed me upon arrival and start walking past the portico that’s lined with round, polished wooden beams as I reflect on the opulence of tonight’s event, which is just as ridiculous as Angelo’s behavior.
Boyfriend? Please.I scoff even as my thighs clench.
No. I’m not thinking about him or how utterly soaked my panties are right now. That shit in the car was just foolish. I shouldn’t have engaged with him, because now he thinks he’s off scot-free and he hasn’t even apologized! Not once. I even fucking cackled at his stupid photo game. I hate that guys think they’re forgiven because they can make you laugh. My father used to pull that stuff with me all the time and then go off whistling, thinking we were right as rain, while underneath, I was still hurting. Seething. Frothing. But I would always swallow it all down.
God, sometimes I hate the fact that I hate confrontation. I wish I had more of a spine. I wish … a lot of things.
I force myself to focus on my surroundings before my thought processes go cliff-diving. I can’t have that happen;I have to fake-smile and pretend to be happy for hours. I look around and soak in the opulence.
It's a sad truth of life that money can buy nearly anything. It's the middle of January, and I'm in a very traditional pueblo-revival courtyard. Turquoise doors set into brown stucco walls showcase all the entrances and exits to the upscale hotel.
I stare for a minute at a running fountain in the middle, which fills the air with the soft, soothing burble of running water. Normally, it wouldn't be running in January, but for people with deep pockets, normal rules don't apply. It makes me want to roll my eyes as I turn toward the hundred round tables covered in white tablecloths with centerpieces featuring fake white candles glowing with electric flames and gleaming red chili wreaths.
Music wafts across the courtyard from hidden speakers, and I weave around caterers setting out hors d'oeuvres, trying to double-check and move placards for the seating arrangements. Debbie was very specific about who should sit with who because part of this fundraiser is an auction for some donated paintings.
“The Garcias and the Jimenez family like to show one another up. Be sure they can see each other. Direct line of sight to drive up the bids. Make it happen, kid,” she’d said before tapping the list and handing it over. A short, Hispanic woman with a square build, Debbie is the smartest person I’ve ever met, and I think she’s even more ruthless than my mother.
I do exactly as she ordered, shifting around the Jimenez placards so that he and his wife have an unobstructed view of the Garcia table. They’ll have to twist a little to see my mother’s speech, but that’s clearly less important.
I sigh.
Money.
Money and status.
That’s all my mother wants to be happy. And after everything with Dad, I want her to be happy.
But her brand of happiness and mine aren’t the same. Telling her that, though? It would be impossible. She’d dismiss me as naive, the way she was when she married Dad. And maybe she’s right. Maybe what I’m thinking about is stupid. Maybe the plan I toy with when I think about my major is just some big, foolish pipe dream. It probably is—
“See the game last weekend?” Angelo’s voice drags me from my thoughts and I turn around to find Quique and the fucker himself standing casually behind me. Dammit. Has it been thirty minutes already? My frozen toes say it has.
Quique’s tapping away at his phone, but Angelo’s smirking at me, his weight on one hip, one hand in his pants pocket, his suit jacket undone, tie coming loose—he looks like an Instagram model. Messy in a deliberately perfect way designed to drive you mad and make you want to fix every little thing and run your hands all over his massive chest in the process.
His deep brown eyes draw lines over my body, like he’s playing connect the dots. Nipple. Nipple. Crotch. Face.
I want to slap him but I annoyingly also want to jump his bones as he blatantly checks me out and licks his lips. Fuck. Who was it that said divide and conquer? Because my mind and my body are definitely divided right now. My thighs are physically tensed; they’re primed and ready to send me hurling through space into his arms. I internally shoutNo!and that’s still not enough. I have to wrap my arms tightly around myself, which only makes me all the more aware of how sensitive and ready for his touch my breasts are right now. Damn him.
“Well, did you see the game?” he asks again, staring straight at me.
I’d thought he’d been addressing Quique, but I’m not that lucky. Angelo apparently wants to have a civil conversation with me in public. I breathe out a sigh that’s half relief and half exasperation because it would be easier if we just didn’t talk at all.
“Yeah, I saw it.” I assume he’s talking about his team.
The downside of having an older brother is that he hogs the TV. The upside of having a brother who hogs the TV is that you become well-versed in football and sports metaphors and can easily impress guys at parties with stupid tricks, like rattling off stats. Their eyes go wide and men get half-hard, thinking that maybe, just maybe they’ve found a unicorn—a girl who would encourage their Sunday football habit and not mind them crumbing up the couch with snacks as they use their warrior bellows to cheer on men in tight pants.
Little do they know, I typically zone out after ten minutes at the start of each half and turn to reading historical romance. Sports Center is the real source of all my knowledge, and only because one of the announcers has a voice that really should be narrating my naughty audiobooks.
“What did you think? Did they do a good job protectingthe pocket?” His tone drips with innuendo.
That fucker. So he isn’t trying to have a decent conversation. He’s trying to continue what he started in the car.
