Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

I nod.

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” I swallow, picking up my glass and taking a sip. “I want you to kiss me all over my body.”

We stare at one another. And if a man’s eyes could burn the clothes off my body, they would be lying in a blazing pile on the ballroom floor.

“Did you really just say that?” He laughs, and I wonder out loud what’s so funny. “You hate me. You would never let me kiss you.”

I don’t hate him—what would make him say that?

“I said what I said,” I say, unflinching, chin tilting up defiantly, daring him to argue with me.

I wonder if he said it because he wants me to admit out loud that I find him so good-looking he’s beginning to make me nervous. The alcohol I had earlier provides the perfect liquid courage I need to flirt.

What if I never get another chance?

What if it’s back to online dating and being hit on by college students and men I have no interest in? Men who are nowhere near as charismatic and charming and handsome as Mateo Espinoza and his rippling biceps and broad shoulders.

Mateo stares me down, serious expression on his face. He’s debating—what to do and what to say—that much is clear. He looks somber and thoughtful.

“Do you want to get a bottle of wine and go talk somewhere more private?”

Translation: let’s get the fuck out of here so I can lick you from head to toe.

“Sure.”

Mateo signals for the bartender and orders a bottle and two glasses, carrying it all in one hand when it’s slid across the bar top, taking my hand in the other.

Elevators.

We go as high as we can go, needing to swipe the key to access the top floors, barely saying a word as the elevator car rises.

Fifteen.

Nineteen.

Twenty-three.

My heart races when it finally slows and comes to a full stop, gold shiny doors sliding open to the floor with all the expensive executive suites.

I follow Mateo to a door midway down the long corridor with its fancy beige carpet, cream-colored walls, and gold door plates. The suite he’s in has double doors and a marble tiled entry.

He kisses me for the first time when we’re inside, softly pressing his lips against mine before setting the bottle of wine and glasses down. It’s not a passionate kiss, but it’s nice, and it quells my nerves as I follow him farther in.

Twelve

Mateo

Why am I so damn nervous?

I’ve had women to my place before; I’m not one of those dudes with rules like “no bringing chicks back to bang so they don’t know where I live.”

So it’s not like my condo is a shrine of virtue or a sacred place. It’s simply somewhere I sleep, hoping that someday, I’ll move out and buy a house with a woman, with a big yard and lots of babies.

Earlier, I went to my folks’ house to pick up the food I asked mi madre to make, knowing if she delivered it, she would never leave. Telling her the food was for a woman would be a fatal mistake for the evening—if you thought my sisters were bad, they have nothing on my mother.

Pops? He doesn’t give a shit about my personal life as long as my career is stable and I have a steady job.

I lay everything out in a spread on the center island in my kitchen, glad Ma cooked everything in white ceramic bowls and not disposable aluminum pans, as per usual.

It looks nice and smells delicious.

Enchiladas dripping with rojo (red) mole sauce, a small dish of barbacoa with tortillas on the side, guacamole, chips, sour cream. Some Spanish rice. A dozen churros that were still warm from the oven when I ran in to grab everything.

I pluck one from the pile and stuff the end in my mouth as there’s a knock on my door, and I swallow hard, feeling guilty that I’m already eating.

Goddamn, this churro es fantástico!

I wipe my mouth with the cuff of my long-sleeved shirt before pulling open the door, glancing down to make sure my shirt is tucked into my jeans.

Half of it is, half of it isn’t.

Shit.

Too late.

True Wallace is standing on my stoop looking reluctant and anxious, holding a white cardboard box I can only assume is from a bakery of some kind.

I reach over to take it off her hands at the same time I say hello, kissing her on the cheek too because why not.

This is a date, isn’t it?

“Is this the equivalent of a man bringing a woman flowers?” I ask, holding the box as she brushes past me, shucking her winter jacket at the same time she glances around my place.

It’s your average city condo—more of a loft, really—open concept and mostly cold. I’m a guy without a family, so what do I care about warmth and decorating and the place feeling homey.