Uh-oh.
This is the thing about Carmen. She grew up in the one of the roughest parts of Miami referred to by the locals as “down south.” Her father was killed in a bar fight when she was eight years old. Her three older brothers are all currently doing prison time. One for drug running, his fifth count. One for domestic assault. And one for first-degree murder and attempted robbery. Carmen’s mother was chronically ill, but she still worked odd jobs in an attempt to bridge the gap of what the government couldn’t provide and the basics of what was needed for her family to survive. Though Mrs. Morales was not about to let her only daughter travel down the same path as her three older brothers, no one escapes that type of environment unscathed. Carmen was molded straight from that Miami neighborhood where she grew up and when she feels attacked in any way, shape, or form, she quickly morphs back into the girl who ultimately won every street fight she was in and has the scars to prove it.
But while Carmen could absolutely hold her own, I would just as soon avoid getting the snot beaten out of me in some alley after we leave. Reaching across the space that separates us, I grab Carmen’s hand, attempting a not-so-sly diversion.
“Hey, where do you think our drinks are?”
The band has been playing on, but a quick sweep of the room shows that we have now become everyone’s entertainment, instead of the best jazz and R&B in all of Nashville.
“It’s been a good fifteen minutes, I’m sure of it,” I blather on. It hasn’t. It’s been a good fifteen seconds. Still, I pretend I’m searching for our waitress, but instead I make eye contact with the table of girls who stared me down earlier for taking too long to order and mouth, “I’m sorry.” Luckily, all but the one with pencil-thin lips and a bride-to-be sash seem to be aligned with me in avoiding an all-out catfight. Three sets of hands land on the woman who told Carmen to zip it—she’s half Carmen’s size. What was she thinking? As they yank her back down, I jerk on Carmen’s arm until she rips her attention back toward me, a string of Spanish expletives rolling fluidly off her tongue.
Suddenly I’m grateful for my earlier indecisiveness. I could use that “house special” about now. I scan around and lament, “Where is she…” but my voice fades into nothingness when I spot an insanely magnetic man with the most intense smoldering stare, I’ve ever seen.
And he’s watching…me?
No.
Why would he be watching me?
Everyone is watching you, Laurel. You’re nothing special; you’re a spectacle. That’s all.
Self-conscious, I ignore him, turning my attention back to the band. But try as I might, I sense his eyes on me. Assessing. And I begin to fidget like I have fire ants nesting in my granny panties. I smooth down my skirt. I cross my legs. I uncross and cross them the opposite way.
Those eyes. Wow.
I twist a chunk of hair into a corkscrew. I shake my foot and lick my lips.
Don’t look. Don’t. Look.
I don’t. But I do pick at my peeling nail polish. I do chew off a hangnail on my left ring finger. And I do resist the urge to validate that the gorgeous man has moved on to someone else.
Because why wouldn’t he?
Mi amado.
My beloved.
Could it…?
Nooo. It can’t be. He’s not. Don’t be ridiculous, Laurel.
I scratch a nonexistent itch on my knee.
I pluck out an eyelash and blow it to the ground.
I pull at a stray thread in my hem, not realizing it’s a bad idea until it’s too late.
Finally, I can’t take it any longer. I have to know if he’s still there. Still watching.
When I turn my head his way, I am surprised to find he is. He absorbs my confusion.
Of course, there is doubt, gorgeous stranger. I am wearing mustard and you look like a ketchup kinda guy.
A slight smile upturns the corners of his plump lips. They resemble delicious ballpark franks. Almost makes me rethink my aversion to hot dogs.
I want to smile back, but he can’t be flirting with me. Can he? Though who else would it be? It’s definitely not Carmen this time.
Because of the way this room is narrowly shaped, Carmen sits at a forty-five-degree angle to my right, facing the stage. If she kicked out her foot, she’d almost kick mine. And I face the bar with the stage to my left. I face the stranger. There is no one behind me. I know this because my seat is flat against a brick wall that my long hair keeps getting stuck to.
Still, I have to weed out all other possibilities, so I glance to my left knowing very well the only one there is the hot pianist, and while hot pianist is quite attractive, I’m pretty sure he’s not this man’s bailiwick. Carmen’s to my right, and as we’ve already established, she is out of the question for once. Out of stupidity or insecurity, or both, I turn around and stare at the wall behind me. Still brick. I slowly return to the stranger. He’s laughing as he tips his half-empty glass of beer in my direction.
A mock “cheers.”
My face burns hotter than the engine of Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s race car after five hundred laps at the Daytona 500. Instinctively, I reach for a drink that I still don’t have yet.
“Where’s that waitress?” My taste buds water wildly. I am so thirsty my mouth hurts.
My beautiful stranger—my, as though I’ve claimed him already—stands up from his place at the bar and begins walking in my direction.
Crap. Crap. Crap. Seriously?
I start chewing on a nail.
What is he doing? What am I going to say? Why am I so nervous?
I wince when I take out a chunk of flesh with nerves still very much attached. I shake my hand before twining all ten fingers together, clenching so hard my knuckles cry out.
Why are you acting like a zit-faced schoolgirl, Laurel? Get a grip.
I’m so busy practicing hellos and how do you do’s and who, me? in my mind, that it’s not until he’s nearly upon me that I notice Manny is right behind him.
I deflate faster than a sliced balloon.
“Senorita.” Carmen’s boyfriend greets me with a quick kiss to the back of my hand as he always does. He doesn’t look contrite in the least, and neither does Carmen.
This is a setup. I should have known.
Gorgeous stranger isn’t into me at all.
I am angry. Humiliated. My breaths are shallow. I feel like I’ve run a marathon and fell just short of the finish line, unable to cross.
“What are you doing here?” I spit.
I direct my irate question to Manny, but the stranger’s gaze hasn’t let me go yet. It’s warm and inviting and…unnerving how much I like it, even if he was forced to be here.
“May I?”
Stranger waves to my seat but doesn’t wait for a reply before he proceeds to turn his body and bend his long legs until he’s perched in the chair with me. With me. I am now squashed between his warm, firm thigh and the arm of a chair that’s roomy enough for one but is definitely not made for two.
He pitches an arm around the back of our chair—around me—and wedges his muscular self in a bit further until he’s nice and comfortable. As if we are lovers or it’s date night. As if we’ve known each other our whole lives and haven’t just met.
And what can I do? We’ve already garnered enough attention that I’m worried we may be asked to leave, so there I sit. Fuming. Flustered. My face on fire and my body quickly catching up.