Page 73 of Winning Match
Nerves wash over me and I snort as the opening lines of “Milkshake” by Kelis rings out.
I laugh but I begin to sing and dance.
And the bar erupts. Bianca screams and Ale looks at me with amusement and pride shimmering from the depths of his eyes.
I smile at him as I embrace turning twenty-seven. Deep down, I know everything is about to change.
My birthday party is one of the best nights of my life. It brims with carefree fun and excitement. I spend time chatting with Alejandro’s family before they dip out. The fact that they showed up means more to me than they know.
It’s not just that they came to the party. It’s that they genuinely wanted to be present, and I could feel that in their warm hugs and birthday wishes.
Once the door closes behind Abuela, the bartender, a friend of B’s, lines up shot glasses and pulls out a bottle of tequila. The night grows rowdier from then on.
Singing, shots, and endless dancing.
Posing for photos, being pulled into various conversations, and enjoying every moment.
It’s raucous and wild, intimate and freeing.
When Bianca presents me with a cake in the shape of a sailboat, a pink twenty-seven on the sail, I almost cry.
“No tears. Just wishes,” Andrés shouts, keeping my emotions checked.
I nod at him, smiling at my friends as they sing “Cumpleaños Feliz.”
Then, I make the wish that is rooted in the center of my heart and blow out the candles.
The penthouse is dark and quiet when we push inside. Ale carries a Tupperware with leftover cake and a bag with birthday cards and gifts inside.
It’s nearly two a.m.—early by Spanish standards—but by the almost indecent looks Ale shot in my direction over the last hour, I’m eager to be home.
The door closes behind him and immediately, the air changes, charging with the desire that’s been churning between us for weeks. Tonight, I’m not pumping the brakes or backing down. Tonight, my actions have nothing to do with our agreement, with the sham of a relationship we’ve cloaked ourselves in.
Ale places the cake and bag on the console table and toes off his shoes. When he turns toward me, his gaze is dark, his eyes heated.
“Everything is different now,” I whisper, my voice soft and quiet. Hopeful. So fucking hopeful that he is correctly reading—fully understanding—the plea in my tone.
I want you. I want this.
“Everything,” he growls, his chin dipping in agreement.
Then, he stalks toward me, picks me up, and carries me to his bedroom.
21
Marlowe
I cling to him until we cross the threshold of his bedroom.
Then, I slide down his frame until I’m standing before him, unsteady on my feet.
“I won’t let you go after this,” he admits, his voice throaty, his eyes intense. “So, if you don’t want this, stop me now.”
Desire floods my system but it’s more than that—it’s the promise in his words.
I won’t let you go.
“Don’t stop,” I rasp as Ale’s fingers curl around my ear, pushing my hair out of my face.
