Chapter 2 #2
Starting at his worn brown leather boots, I leisurely drag my focus north, over the perfectly pressed chinos and cornflower-blue button-down with the top two buttons loose, revealing his sun-bronzed skin and a splatter of chest hair.
I pause on the corded muscles of his forearms before moving to his soft cheekbones and supple lips hiding behind a five-o’clock shadow.
When I meet his emerald gaze, it’s smoldering, and the intensity nearly knocks me from my barstool.
He’s so attractive it pisses me off, irrationally so.
“Like what you see?” he questions, but his teasing demeanor has vanished, and I don’t know what to do with that, so I bite my lip. I’m not a liar, but I am not going to admit to Mateo that his appearance does some odd, medically concerning things to my nether regions.
His smile slips, only for a second, but I catch it before he plasters on another—a different one—for my best friend.
“Hi, Amy.” He pauses, surveying her hair. “New color?”
“Stained the bathtub pink,” she admits, twirling a curl around her finger.
No matter how many chemicals we threw at the stain, the acrylic is permanently stained a soft shade of pink. I say it’s an upgrade from the melancholy beige, but I’m not sure our landlord will agree.
“This is Oliver. We were roommates in undergrad. He’s visiting from London.”
Mateo gestures to the man beside him, a tall blond with blue-gray irises framed by round metal-rimmed glasses. Amy glances at me, imperceptible to the men standing before us, but it conveys one clear message: she’s fallen in love.
“I’m also the reason he’s made it this far in life,” Oliver says with a crisp British accent.
Consider my interest piqued. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not really—” Mateo starts, but I cut him off. He will not ruin my opportunity to dig up dirt on him.
“Don’t be rude. Let Oliver tell his story.”
Oliver laughs and raises a brow, and Mateo sighs but gestures for him to continue.
“First weekend of classes, there was a pool party off campus, where I met Mateo. Only, he was piss drunk, lost his initial roommate, and had switched to exclusively speaking Spanish.” Amy giggles, but my focus is locked on Mateo, who’s shaking his head.
“I babysat him while he stumbled into a McDonald’s and inhaled twenty chicken nuggets, and then made sure he got home.
He moved into my dorm room a week later, and I’ve taken care of him ever since. ”
Huh. That story is more endearing than embarrassing.
“That’s not how I remember it,” Mateo grumbles.
“You don’t remember any of it.” Oliver turns to Amy and me. “It’s lovely to meet you both.”
“Amy Callagan.” She extends her hand, clasping Oliver’s and shaking aggressively. “So nice to meet you. I’m Amy.”
“So you’ve said.” He slides onto the barstool beside her. “Oliver Beauford-Taylor. ”
The two get lost in conversation, and I swirl my straw, focused on the ice cubes in my cup rather than the awkward silence between Mateo and me.
He mimics my action, batting his straw back and forth, when a droplet flies out of the glass.
“Be careful with that drink, Mateo. I would hate to lose another outfit.”
He twirls the paper umbrella in his fruity cocktail, then stabs a cherry and pulls it between his teeth.
Neptune, save me.
The bar spikes twenty degrees, and I kick my feet beneath the table to create a breeze to my flushed skin.
His throat bobs in my periphery as he gulps down the liquid, but I study a dollar bill on the wall to prevent myself from fixating on the concerningly erotic action.
“Better?” he asks, swiping a rogue drop of liquid from the corner of his mouth with his tongue.
It’s possible I track the way it darts out, how it drags along the seam of his lips. It’s also possible someone put crazy juice in my glass, because under no circumstances should I be admiring Mateo’s lips.
“I like the top,” he murmurs, low and deep, before reaching out his hand, hovering it over my wrist. When I make no protest—how could I when my throat is dry and his gaze is heavy on my skin?—he gently runs his fingers along the fabric, his thumb grazing the bare skin on my inner wrist.
I snatch my hand away, the spot where he touched me ablaze.
Why the fuck am I flustered?
The remainder of my drink slides easily down my throat, and I scurry away to the bar to get another margarita before the competition begins. I’m going to have to get plastered in Margaritaville to get through this night .
Our answer sheet lies on the chipped wooden high-top when I return. Amy is in full flirtation mode, and based on how Oliver leans into her, they’re both a lost cause to help.
Mateo glances in their direction before he makes a face, and I have to hide a small laugh behind a cough. Amy stole my spot to sit closer to Oliver, so I slide onto the barstool beside Mateo and pretend my head doesn’t dizzy from his cologne.
He scribbles on the top of the answer sheet.
Charles Darwin’s Bitches.
This time, I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles from my chest or ignore how my heart skips when Mateo responds with his own.
“Looks like it’s just the two of us,” he says, bumping my shoulder. “Think you can survive without falling in love with my intellect?”
“Neptune on a cracker, you are full of yourself,” I mumble, snatching the paper away. “They don’t call me the queen of trivia for nothing, Mateo.”
“Queen of trivia, huh? Do you need a king by any chance?”
I roll my eyes, ignoring his teasing, and the first question is called out.
“Who is the ‘king of football’? Or soccer, for us Americans.”
The blood drains from my face. Not a great start. I know very little about sports. I tap the pen against the table, scouring the corners of my mind for an answer.
“Well?” Mateo asks, drawing his lower lip between his teeth. “Got the answer?”
“You know I don’t.”
“Good thing we’re a team.” Mateo pulls the pen from my hand and writes in the answer. “It’s Pelé.”
I click my tongue, pretending I know who that is, but I make a mental note to search him tonight at home, because there is noway I am asking Mateo to enlighten me .
The questions fly, and we find a rhythm, competing to answer the question before the other. Occasionally, only Mateo knows the answer, but glee floods my system when the question is about the greatest boy band to ever exist.
“What are the names of the five members of One Direction?” the announcer asks, and Mateo’s face falls how mine did earlier.
I seize my opportunity.
“It’s time to woo me with your intellect,” I say, offering the pen.
“Bruja.”
“Mateo.”
We face off in an epic stare down before he sighs in defeat.
“If you’re going to be the king of trivia, you have to know the five members of the greatest boy band to ever grace the human species.”
Mateo huffs. “Just write it down.”
“I need to bask in this moment.” I lean back, throwing my arms wide and pretending the warmth of the sun’s rays are hitting my skin. When I rise, Mateo wears a goofy smile. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
It didn’t feel like nothing , but I let it go and list out the names. “Harry, Niall, Louis, Zayn, and Liam.”
He scribbles them down while I wonder if the rare smile he offered me will reappear.
The last question is called out, which Mateo and I both know, and we impatiently wait as the announcer tallies the score. The silence between us isn’t awkward like earlier, rather anticipatory for our impending victory.
He reaches our table and offers the second-place prize: a twenty-five-dollar gift card.
“Congrats. You came in second!”
His cheeriness to our devastating loss rubs me the wrong way. Second place is just first loser .
That’s not right. From the huffing, puffing, and groaning I heard around the bar, this was a tough night for others, meaning Mateo and I should have won.
“What do you mean we placed second?” Mateo asks, full of disbelief.
The announcer gives us a dumb look. “Someone answered correctly more than you.”
“Who?”
As much as it pains me to admit, Mateo and I absolutely killed it. The only questions we missed were obscure, pre-1975 pop-culture facts, and neither Mateo nor I were alive in that era.
No one here should have been able to beat us.
The announcer scans his sheet. “Charlie and Mateo’s worst nightmare. Odd name.”
“ Excuse me ?” My voice raises two octaves.
I glance to where Amy and Oliver traveled after complaining that Mateo and I were too competitive. We both scoffed, proving their point, and they’ve been there ever since. They’re both lost in conversation and unlikely to be our enemies.
“What the…” Mateo trails off. “Can you point them out?”
We follow the announcer’s hand, which points at a couple on the opposite side of the room, hidden in the shadows. They peek out of the booth, and that’s when I spot my advisor, Cheryl, and her husband, Dan, who is Mateo’s advisor.
They wave, shit-eating grins on their faces. Cheryl winks and wiggles her eyebrows, and for the first time in two years, I agree with something Mateo says.
“Those two need to pay for this,” he mutters as Cheryl mouths, Better luck next time.
I’m ready to confront our advisors when a body slams into mine from behind and Amy’s distinct vanilla-cupcake scent fills the air.
“Did you win?” she yells, before leaning in close to whisper, “I think I’m in love with Oliver. ”
I offer her a fond, bemused smile. Amy falls in love with everyone she meets—a trait I envy. Oliver stands close to her, his palm splayed on the small of her back, as if he can’t help but touch her.
He steals a peek at her ass when he thinks no one is watching, then blushes .
Go, Ames.
“Our advisors beat us,” Mateo grumbles, an uncharacteristically annoyed tone in his voice. I can’t help the cackle that tumbles out. His face freezes at the sound, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, before he responds with one of his own.
“It’s late,” I say, unsure how to react, and throw a hand over my shoulder. “Time to go home.”
“It was great to meet you, Charlie,” Oliver says, before ensuring he has Amy’s number. They hug, and it lingers long enough that Mateo makes another face—his nose scrunched and tongue poking the inside of his cheek.
“See you later, bruja,” he purrs as we weave through the crowd toward the exit.
Amy links her arm with mine. “Sorry I left you alone with Mateo.”
The guilt in her voice is unmistakable, but as we walk back to our apartment, I admit something I’m not quite ready to accept. “I had fun. With Mateo, I mean. He’s still aggravating, but he made a good partner.”
She squeals, then throws her fist in the air.
“I fell in love, and you’re learning to tolerate Mateo. That’s a successful night.”
“How was talking with Oliver?”
I listen to Amy recount their conversations, how he’s a history buff and likes to run marathons. It’s not until we’re halfway home that it dawns on me. I spent the whole night without a single thought about people staring, and Mateo was likely the cause.