32. MATEO
thirty-two
I toss my keys to the starstruck valet and don’t break my stride as I make my way toward the heavily secured doors. Eye contact is all it takes for the velvet rope to be lifted and for large men to scramble to open the doors. This is one of those moments where having a recognizable face comes in handy.
I make my way through the hordes of people. Being a head taller than most makes it easy for me to spot Denise and Luisa. I make it to their table in four long strides. I ignore the look of shock on the faces of two women I don’t recognize as I scan the table, where there’s no sign of Isabella.
I lean into one of the vacant seats, keeping my voice low as I look at Denise. “Where?”
More words aren’t necessary. She knows exactly why I’m here and who I’m looking for.
She nods at a booth where a guy wearing a navy dress shirt is sitting and typing desperately on his phone. “She just got up to use the bathroom, but she’s sitting over there. Listen, Mateo. I had—”
I stop a passing waiter and hand him my Black Amex. “Cover the tab for this table and that booth over there. Once you’re done, leave my card with her.” I nod at Denise. “Before you close out, give yourself a 50 percent tip. You got all that?” The waiter nods rapidly and runs off toward the bar.
“Mateo,” Luisa starts.
“Torres is on his way. I’m offering up his services to drive you ladies home safely.” I make brief eye contact with the women I don’t know. “Hope you don’t judge me for the man I might become in the next thirty seconds. See you all at a game soon. Have a good night.” My media training finished the rest of that sentence for me, because my eyes were already scanning the room for the bathrooms.
My hands itch with the need to touch her, to know that she’s safe and that she’s within reach.
I find the dimly lit hall to the bathroom right as she’s walking out.
She might as well be on a damn runway with the way she’s strutting in that red dress. It’s cut low enough to give the hint of cleavage before it cuts short by her mid-thigh, molding to her every curve.
Heads turn as she passes, men attempting to get a peek at the figure I know all too well.
She’s about to turn off toward the booth when I notice a dark and quiet alcove and pull her by the wrist.
She gasps as she loses her footing slightly, landing between the wall and my chest. I close in around her, making sure that if someone passes by, they can’t see her.
When her eyes finally reach mine, her jaw drops slightly, and I can see the questions floating in her gaze. I don’t give her a minute to catch her breath.
Why should I? I haven’t since the moment I laid eyes on her all those months ago.
“This is how it’s going to go, Isabella. So listen very carefully.”
Her eyes widen at my tone, and she bites her bottom lip.
My large hand cradles her chin as my thumb releases the plump lip.
“Option one: you tell me to get lost and I leave.” I lean in close enough for my lips to fan faintly over hers as I speak. “But let me warn you. If you’re gonna tell me to fuck off, do it properly and make it convincing.” Her eyes flare with heat as I swipe my thumb over her bottom lip, then slowly pop it into my mouth.
Cherry fucking ChapStick.
“Option two: you keep your manners for the time being, walk over to the man I hope has been a gentleman all night, and bid him farewell. I will be waiting with my car outside the private entrance to take you home. If you choose option two and take more than five minutes, I will walk back in here and show you that I have no problem disregarding my manners when it comes to you. I’ll haul your ass over my shoulder and out of here. Understood?”
Isabella takes her sweet time looking me up and down. I can see the mischief starting to play out in her eyes.
“And what happens if I want an option three?” she asks breathily.
I give her a dangerous smirk, because I knew she would be a brat and try to push my buttons. So I came prepared.
“Glad you asked. Because there is no option three. But there is a strike three on the table.” I don’t let the shock on her face fester as I continue. “You remember when I told you those previous strikes were more about me than you?” She nods slightly in my hold. “Well, you see, the times you earned strikes weren’t because you were failing at your job. They were because I was failing at mine. At not wanting you, at not keeping you at arm’s length.” I lean down her neck, inhaling her sweet scent as my breath tickles under her ear. “That first strike wasn’t because you were rummaging through my kitchen in the middle of the night. It was because I wanted to bend you over the counter and take you right then and there at the sight of you wearing pajamas that were begging to be ripped apart by my teeth.”
I almost stop talking and get us moving at the sound of her soft moan. But if we’re going to do this, I need to get it all out. “The second strike wasn’t because you made a mess of my kitchen. It was because you so seamlessly wove yourself into my family, making it hard to imagine a day where I come home and you’re not right there, standing next to my daughter.”
I lift myself slightly to meet her big, beautiful brown eyes again. “And strike three, tesoro?”
“What happens after strike three?” she whispers, her face inching closer to mine.
I let my hand travel from her chin to the back of her neck, giving her a slight squeeze as I say, “Strike three, and you’re mine, Isabella.”
I watch my words wash over her face as her eyes flutter closed momentarily. When she opens them fully, she bypasses my awaiting lips and whispers into my ear, setting my world on fire. “I’m calling strikeout.”