Page 8 of Winning Match
“Okay, I’m in,” I agree, finally coming to a decision.
I say it with gusto and my commitment to a night out is a bit of a relief. When I go in, I’m one hundred percent committed. The version of me since walking in on Gerard with the blonde has me feeling out of sorts and I’m desperate for some solid ground.
Even if it’s dancing at a nightclub. Maybe that’s what I need?
“Bueno!” Ale wraps an arm around my waist and spins me in a circle, grasping my hand at the last moment to dip me. “Do you dance?”
I bite my bottom lip, my blood rushing to my head as he pulls me upright. “Yes. Do you?”
“Marli, I’m Spanish,” he laughs.
I arch an eyebrow, liking the way he shortened my name. Liking that he gave me a personalized nickname at all when I’ve only known him for a few hours.
“It’s in my blood. And it was a requirement of my abuela’s. When my sisters started flamenco lessons, she signed me and my cousins Rafa and Sebastien up for Paso Doble lessons.” He wrinkles his nose.
“What’s that?” I bite my bottom lip to keep from grinning. The more I learn about Ale’s abuela, the more I adore her.
“It’s like ballroom style but with Spanish flair. It originated from the Spanish bullfights with the man dancing as the matador, the bullfighter, and the woman as the red cape, or sometimes, even the bull.”
I arch an eyebrow. “I have to see this.”
Ale chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s very old-fashioned. I don’t even remember the steps, and I’d prefer to dance bachata now.” His eyes spark. “Especially with you.”
“Okay, you don’t have to break out the ballroom moves. But if I’m coming out, you have to dance with me.” I poke him in the chest, my fingertip meeting solid muscle. “I never go clubbing. And it’s already past my bedtime. I’m breaking all my rules.”
Ale grasps my finger and tugs me even closer, sliding a hand on my hip. “Te lo prometo,” he murmurs in my ear. A shiver shimmies down my spine, and I practically swoon. “I promise you. Tonight, I will break my rules too.”
I pull in a breath, the scent of his skin—citrus oranges, clean soap, and salty sea—washing over me like a wave. It drags me under, and I pitch forward on my toes, wanting to be closer to him. His hand tightens on my hip and when his eyes find mine, his gaze holds me hostage. Pinning me to this moment, to this street corner, to the magic of tonight. Around us, the city blurs, dropping into the background.
Ale’s smile slips and his expression changes from teasing to intense, nearly severe, as he studies me. His nostrils flare as he inhales, his eyelids falling to half-mast.
I lift my chin slightly, daring him, begging him, to kiss me.
His eyes flash for a heartbeat before his mouth arcs, so tantalizingly slowly, over mine. When his lips are a whisper away, a passerby whistles loudly, and Ale jerks back, the moment between us snapping.
And I feel the loss of his heat, the forfeiture of the moment, like a physical ache. It reverberates in my chest—a pang of withered hope.
Of drowned desire.
Of stark reality.
The way I feel in Ale’s presence is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s a delicate and conflicting cocktail of emotions—giddy, anxious, eager, hesitant. Yet, at the forefront, I feel alive and present, with all five senses buzzing, and my heart bursting with the promise of more.
I don’t remember the last time I felt this way, but if the intensity of this evening is anything to go by, it’s been too long.
He loosens his grip on my waist but doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, a grin cuts across his gorgeous face. “When we dance, can you keep up?” he teases, navigating our conversation back to shallow, safer waters.
I snort and roll my eyes, feigning bravado. “Trust me, Ale, I can dance.” And years ago, I could.
I hope that still holds true. I pray dancing is like riding a bike and after a song or two, I’ll find and hold the rhythm.
Because while I’ve never been to a club in Spain, I have a feeling it’s not akin to the lame dances I do in Grandpa’s kitchen while washing pots after Sunday night dinner.
Ale and I walk another half a block before my mouth drops open. “Oh, wow.” There’s a line of people, circling around a building, more than a street length, waiting for access to a nightclub.
Cava, vodka, and gin thrum through my veins, keeping me warm and relaxed. On some level, I realize how irresponsible I’m being. Dinner with a stranger. Out to a club in the middle of the night.
Marlowe Claire Prescott doesn’t do rash and spontaneous things.
