4. Valentina
Chapter 4
Valentina
I literally pinch myself.
I have to be drunk—there’s no other explanation.
On the second pass, I dig my fingernails into my skin for good measure. “Ah!”
“What are you doing?” Avery’s hand darts out and he takes my fingers in his, squeezing them lightly. His expression is confused, concerned.
“You can’t actually be proposing marriage,” I say evenly. Rationally.
Avery’s eyes soften and the look he gives me—his eyes liquid ink—almost hurts. It’s too understanding; too tender. Too…out of my comfort zone. “Why not?”
“We’re drunk. We have to be drunk. I never drink this much.” I gesture toward the bartender who has already removed my empty glasses. But…how many servings of wine did I consume?
“I’m nowhere near being drunk,” Avery replies, his tone serious.
I look at him, feeling my eyes flare with panic. “I am,” I admit. My head swims, and my heart beats erratically. “I should…I need to go home.”
“Okay.” He flags down the bartender and passes him a credit card. “I’ll walk you home and tomorrow, we’ll talk.”
“We’ll talk,” I repeat.
“I’ll take you out to breakfast.”
I frown. “Don’t you have…football? Aren’t the games on Sundays?”
He smirks. “We have a bye week.”
“Oh.”
“So, breakfast?”
“Yes.” I can do breakfast. I mean, chances are Avery will cancel after he comes to his senses overnight. It’s good I put a pin in this conversation now before it becomes even more unlikely and…embarrassing.
There’s no way an American football player—a nationally recognized and celebrated quarterback—would want to marry me. I glance down at my pale pink sweater and simple jeans. I’m wearing Hoka sneakers to a bar and have my credit cards banded together with a hair tie. I’m not sophisticated, fashionable, put-together material.
I’m not the type of woman an athlete dates.
For a brief flicker of a heartbeat, Dane Thomson, one of Ale’s U-20 teammates, flares to life in my mind. I shake my head and he’s gone.
I release an exhale. If I’m conjuring memories of Dane, I’ve surely veered into wasted territory. I don’t think about him. Ever.
He’s locked away in a box of my mind that is too painful to recall.
“You ready?” Avery asks.
“Yes.” I slide off the barstool and Avery grasps my elbow to keep me steady. But I’m not shaky on my feet. Instead, I’m uncertain. Confused. Overwhelmed.
You’d think the walk from the sports bar to our condo building would be awkward. Strangely, it’s not. Avery and I keep the conversation light, but we continue to talk.
He tells me more about Raia and Cohen’s engagement party. I mention trying to catch one of Raia and Carla’s soccer games in Chicago.
When we step into the elevator, he looks at me expectantly.
“I’m on the fifth floor,” I tell him. He presses number five.
“I’m on the seventh,” he offers.
I smirk. “See, I’m not a stalker.”
Avery snorts. “I’m humiliated about that.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be. I’m…humiliated by all of this.” I toss an arm in between us to explain the entire night. The bar, the word vomit, the marriage proposal.
While a part of me admires that Avery hasn’t already backtracked and laughed off his insane offer to marry me, I also know he will see reason by morning. He has to. Other than the obvious fact that men like him don’t marry women like me, there’s also another important point to consider.
What the hell would he get out of our marriage agreement?
“Don’t be.” His voice is rough, and it pulls me from my thoughts.
When I look at him, I notice the soft green-brown flecks in his gray eyes. The interest that lights up his irises.
It can’t be desire or want. But it isn’t pity either.
When the elevator doors part, Avery takes my hand. We step over the threshold. I walk us to the second door and fish my key out of my purse. “This is me.”
He nods and waits for me to open my door.
We stand there for several seconds as I wonder what I’m supposed to do. What does he expect me to do?
Do I ask him in?
My nerves jump at the thought of Avery Callaway in my tidy condo unit, eating up all the space and oxygen with his large frame, his understanding demeanor, his bottomless charm.
Other than my dad, brother, cousins, and a handful of Ale and Carla’s most trusted male friends, I haven’t had a man in my space in years. But Avery’s proximity doesn’t put me on high alert the way it should. The way men have in the past.
Instead, a flare of heat warms my insides. My lower abdomen tightens, and I draw in a sharp breath.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Avery leans closer and my eyes fly to his. I brace myself, lock down my limbs, and don’t move. But he doesn’t try to kiss my lips.
Instead, he presses the softest, briefest peck to my forehead. “Sleep well, Valentina. I’ll knock on your door tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I whisper. I let out a long exhale as he steps away.
He smiles and tilts his head toward my door. “I’ll wait for you to lock up.”
His thoughtfulness nearly brings tears to my eyes. It’s something Ale would do. And, not counting the men I’m related to, there’s never been a guy who has showed me such consideration before.
“ Buenas noches ,” I murmur. Good night . Then, I enter my flat, close the door, and flip the lock.
I stand next to the door for several seconds, one palm planted flat against the smooth wood, as I try to regulate my breathing.
My heart gallops, my skin feels over-sensitized, and my cheeks flush.
What the hell was that?
And will Avery really knock on my door tomorrow?
No. He can’t. He won’t.
I convince myself there’s no way as I take a long shower, comb out my hair, and snuggle beneath my duvet.
Sleep comes quickly and I sink into its warm embrace eagerly. I’m desperate to block out the events of the evening and the certain mortification they’ll bring tomorrow.
He knocks.
Holy shit. My eyes jump to the clock on the stove. It’s 9:03 a.m. and Avery Callaway is knocking on my door.
I pull in a deep breath and stand from the kitchen island. I’ve been sitting there for nearly forty minutes. As much as I didn’t expect Avery to show, I still couldn’t shake the worry that he would.
I debated calling my abuelita. I know she would give me rational advice. Maybe even objective insights. But she would also be concerned, and that concern could lead to her speaking to my parents about this.
If Rueben and Paloma Garcia thought their quirky middle daughter was about to marry a man she hardly knew, they would lose their minds.
But would they show up here?
I hate that I even ask myself the question.
No, there was no one to confide in about this .
And so, I researched. I jotted down notes. I considered important questions. And I came up with a list of talking points that need to be discussed.
He knocks again.
I pause in front of the mirror above the hallway console. While I’ll never win any beauty awards, I look sleek and professional today. I brushed my wild curls back and secured them in a low bun with a center part. I’m wearing green cords and a black button-down shirt. And, I glance down, warm slippers.
I got this. I can have this conversation, especially if Avery had the guts to show up.
Straightening my shoulders, I stride to the door and pull it wide open.
Avery’s hand is raised, as if to knock a third time, and he lowers it with a sheepish grin when he sees me.
“Morning, Valentina.”
Damn. How is his voice so velvety and smooth this early in the morning? When I wake up, I sound like a croaking rooster.
To be safe, I clear my throat. “Good morning. Come on in. I can make coffee.”
Avery holds each side of my doorframe and leans forward slightly. I blink up at him, feeling my cheeks heat. Whatever that male move is, it should be illegal. The position makes his biceps bulge and his forearms flex. My throat dries and I clear it again.
“Nah, I promised to take you out for breakfast.” His smile is almost lopsided when he says, “Something tells me you’d feel more comfortable in a public place, and we have a lot to talk about.”
Gah! How does he know that? How can he tell I’m uncomfortable with men in small spaces when Ale or my cousin Rafa have never picked up on it? They attribute it to my being nerdy, not nervous.
“We do,” I agree, stepping back and holding the door open wider. “Come on in. I’ll grab shoes and my notes.”
“Your notes,” Avery says, humor in his tone.
I glance at him over my shoulder as I pull mules from my closet. “This is a felony, you know?”
He chuckles. “Going right to the heart of the matter, are you?”
I narrow my eyes. He smiles broadly.
“Let me at least get some caffeine in my system first,” Avery says. “I know a great place for pancakes, and we should just beat the morning rush. Once we’re there, you can tell me all your concerns.”
I slide on my shoes and stare at him. “Don’t you have any?”
At the seriousness of my tone, he sobers. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Avery rocks forward on the balls of his feet. “I do.”
It’s all he offers but it’s enough.
Nodding, I stride into the kitchen, stuff my notebook and pen into my purse, and slip it onto my shoulder. Grabbing keys from the little dish on the console table, I walk past Avery. “Let’s go.”
“All right,” he agrees, following me out of my condo and waiting while I lock up. “Let’s do it.”