The small gallery is packed with people. I regret coming here immediately. I feel like everything is too tight—my dress, my shoes, my fucking throat. Momma Joe, however, is raving about a piece, and I am trying, trying so fucking hard, to see it, but I can’t. Everything I look at feels like I’m seeing it through a peephole.
“Are you all right, Tris?” she asks.
I nod, smile, and lie, “I need a bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
I want to find a place to hide, to utilize some of the worthless breathing techniques and hope to hell they work, just this once.
Just this fucking once.
I push through the crowd, and when I bump into someone, a woman snaps, “¡Mirate!”
“Sorry, pardon,” I murmur, knowing there’s little chance she heard me over the noise of the crowd.
“Malditos Americanos.” Whatever she said was delivered with venom.
“Move.” I give her the same attitude, more than ready to unleash even more American ’tude.
“Gabrielle, mover,” the voice, familiar, I look up as a hand takes mine, maneuvers me in front of him, and begins moving through the crowd.
I look back to see Momma Joe smirk, wink, and raise her complimentary glass of champagne.
“What do you need?” he asks, splaying his hand across my waist and pulling me tighter against his hard, really fucking hard, body.
“Out of here.” I close my eyes as and allow myself to let him lead.
Once I feel the evening air hit my face, I open my eyes and look around. We’re in an alley, it’s dark, and I can breathe again.
“Are you well?” He flexes his hand against my waist, and heat begins to rise beneath his touch.
“What are you doing here?”
When he doesn’t answer, I push his hand away, turn to face him, and step back, giving my body much-needed space from him.
His eyes are bloodshot and hooded a bit. Matteo Arias looks …
“Are you drunk?”
He holds up two fingers. “Light-weighted.”
I don’t know why but, even in my state, I smile then open the translation app that I downloaded on my phone, tap out, “Nothing wrong with that,” and show him.
“Goat and chicken hat?” he asks.
I quickly turn the phone and look at the screen, “Oh my God, no, it’s—”
“Joke.”
I look up to see he’s smiling.
His smile, his face, him … Matteo Arias is more beautiful than any piece of art that I have seen all day.
I lean back against the brick wall and smile at the ground as I say into the app, “Thanks for getting me out of there.” Then I show him the screen.
“My privileged.”
He means privilege, but there is no need to correct him.
I use the app again. “Your English was better at the concert.” I hand him my phone.
He laughs and says something into the app before handing it back to me.
I read it out load, “Translating is exhausting. It gives me a headache after at times. My brain shuts down after that. I like this app. But, to be honest, there isn’t much need for it when I’m with you. I can see what you feel in your eyes.”
Wow.
He takes the phone from me, dictates into it again, and then hands it back to me.
In order to stop my face from bursting into flames, I read this one to myself.
- Excuse me for being so forward, but you look stunning, Tris. But, so far, my favorite thing you’ve worn is my shirt.
I glance up at him then back down, biting my lip until I realize that I am.
A door is swung open and a woman, the same woman I believe, says his name, “Matteo!”
“Hush,” he whispers as he turns and shields me behind him.
“Matteo, le hemos vendido la última pieza, El ángel de las alas recortadas, a una Italiana.”
I pull out the app because the use of Italiana more than likely has something to do with Momma Joe.
He tells her that’s wonderful news.
She squeals and begins spewing something, and I read along.
- We are good together, Matteo. I’ve spoken to your lawyer and have agreed to sign the necessary paperwork. I will marry you, Matteo. I will be your wife.
“Maybe Francesca has it right. You’re all pigs.” I squeeze out from behind him and begin to walk back into the hell that I just escaped to get away from the hell I’m in.
He grabs my hand, stopping me, and she steps in front of the door, blocking me from going back in.
In plain English, she says, “I will not have you taking a lover if part of the marriage proposal clearly states abstaining from sexual activity with others publicly. She’s in the public.” She crosses her arms in front of her. “It is her or me.”
“May the heavens forgive me, it’s her. It’s Tris.”
I yank my hand away. “Been on this head-trip before. Bought a one-way ticket out. You can both go fuck yourselves.”
“Tris,” he calls after me as I push past the same bitch from the restaurant, Gabrielle.
“Oh, no, Matteo!”
I look back and see him sliding down the brick wall, his eyes fighting to stay open, and he says my name.
“Just lovely,” I grumble as I push past Gabrielle, who seems to freeze at the sight of a grown-ass man passing out.
“Tris?” Momma Joe calls behind me.
“Gotta light-weighted over here,” I groan as I sling his arm over my shoulders to help him stay on his feet.
When he chuckles softly and smiles, I look at him as I hoist him up. His dimple deepens just enough to look not only sexy as hell, but sweet and adorable.
“Oh, that’s not going to work. I’m immune to that shit right there.”
“Hospital,” Gabrielle finally speaks.
“No. Tris?”
“Momma Joe, can you have the car come back here so he isn’t splashed all over the internet tomorrow?”
“Of course, Tris.”
“Gracias,” he slurs.
Safely inside the car, I watch as he tries to tug at his tie.
“Let me.” I brush his hands away and quickly unknot it. Then I unbutton the top two buttons.
“Gracias,” he pants, rolling his head so his cheek rests against the leather seat and he’s looking at me.
“Are you okay?”
He closes his eyes and scrunches them together.
“Translation: pain?”
His lips briefly turn up in the corners.
Momma Joe opens the door and looks in. “I have a piece of art to pay for. Get him back to the hotel.”
“Where?”
“He’s staying at The Principal, too. I’ll grab a car and get there as soon as I can.”
“You’re letting me go alone with a boy?”
“That’s no boy. That’s a man. I think you can take him out if necessary. And, of course, Tris, I trust you.”
Before I can thank her, she hits the car roof and we begin to move.
When I feel his hand against mine, and his fingers slide between mine, I look back at him. He looks like he may throw up.
“Sorry I fucked up your proposal or whatever that—”
With his free hand, he cups my cheek, pulling my head back against the seat, and whispers, “Thank you.”