Chapter 7
Mateo
The skin on my palm burns where Charlie’s hand clutched mine like a lifeline thrown in a raging sea. The cinnamon and mint aroma of her perfume lingers in my nostrils on every inhale.
She leads us into the outdoor bar connected to our hotel, and I allow myself three seconds to admire how her hips sway back and forth beneath her leggings.
We find the table reserved for the crew, and Charlie avoids my gaze as we order drinks. She’s been doing it since we slid into the taxi.
I’m not foolish; I know she’s not my biggest fan. Do I know what I did to get on her bad side? No, but since we met at the beginning of our PhD program, she’s remained closed off from everyone but Amy.
I’ve tried to scale those walls, flirt with her to show her I’m interested, and offer her an ear when she’s having a bad day, but my efforts have failed. Dozens of times, I’ve nearly worked up the courage to ask her on a date, only to change my mind at the last moment .
But this trip may be my opportunity to show her we could be something great, if she wants us to be.
If you want to be seen, you need to stand in the spotlight.
Her blond hair sits atop her head in a messy bun, the subtle breeze swaying loose tendrils in front of her face. She pushes them away as she scans the crowd, and I watch as her finger catches on her scar. She passes along the edge, and the shift in her demeanor is instantaneous.
Charlie’s beauty is raw and uncut, but her smile, the way every feature joins in on her joy, is like reaching a mountain peak and looking out in the great expanse while wondering how lucky you are to lay witness to something so spectacular.
My knee bounces beneath the table as I search for potential topics of conversation to pull her away from whatever thought rattles in her mind.
Did you have a good flight? Poor choice, considering her panic attack.
Are you excited to embark tomorrow? Lame.
How’s your drink? Boring.
I land on the world’s dumbest question and fight the urge to drop my head in my hands.
“Do you like the weather?”
Dios mío, Mateo.
Charlie pouts. “It’s so hot,” she whines as she fans herself and pats the condensation from her glass against her forehead.
The urge to kiss Charlotte Bowen when she’s grumpy is overwhelming. That urge is present at all times, but when the corners of her mouth pull downward and her bottom lip sticks out, it screams “kiss me silly.”
I reach out and tug on the string of her sweatshirt.
“You could take this off,” I say, twirling the cord around my finger. “It’s eighty degrees. ”
“No.” The response is quick and sharp. She chugs the remainder of her drink. “I’m fine.”
“I’m watching a droplet of sweat fall down your cheek. Why won’t you take the sweatshirt off?”
She gasps like I’ve caught her sneaking chocolate in the lab, and she whispers, “I-I only have a tank top under this.”
“I have seen arms before, bruja. I think I can handle it.”
Bright, irritated blue eyes snap to mine.
“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”
I lift a brow, and after a moment of hesitation, Charlie pulls the hem over her head and wraps the sleeves around her waist.
The strength of her sigh could fill the sails of a schooner, and it’s obvious she was dying in the thick material. I may have said I could handle the sight of Charlie’s shoulders, but I’m a liar and already losing brain function, so I focus on the soft dimples of her cheek.
“Was that so hard?”
She purses her lips, her features blank. “No comment?”
I reel back from her defensive tone, shocked by the under layer of anger in it. “Comment about what? It was obvious you were sweating to death. Mentioning it again would be overkill.”
“No, about my scars.”
I peek at the expanse of her skin, and it’s all I can do to contain my gasp. A mosaic of scars—large and small, some ragged and deep, others only with the precision a surgeon could have—pepper her arms and chest.
For two years, I’ve studied Charlie like she’s a foreign language I’m desperate to understand, but I never knew about these scars, the ones that hide under clothing. Something twists deep in my chest at the recognition of the pain she must have endured to receive them.
Bile rises in my throat at the distrust and hesitation written all over her face.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, allowing truth to sink into my words .
While the marks cover a majority of her skin, there is something shockingly stunning about each and every one, about her ; how resilient and powerful she is to have endured what she has.
“W-what?” Her voice cracks and she slumps inward, crossing her arms to hug herself.
I reach out, tracing the small scar below her collarbone, and her skin pebbles beneath my touch.
“Each one of these scars,” I start, trailing a finger along a larger one on her upper arm, “tells a story. They tell me you are brave, resilient, increíble .”
Her throat bobs as she surveys the empty bar. Charlie rises, snatching her sweatshirt. “I need some air,” she says, before running back into the hotel.
I bite back the urge to tell her we’re sitting outside and instead watch as she disappears deeper into the hotel lobby. The longer I sit alone at the table, watching the condensation collect on our glasses, the more my concern for her grows.
Charlie’s never run from a fight with me, but what I just witnessed was her fleeing. Disappointment riots in my chest. I told myself this trip was my chance, but if her reaction to me calling her beautiful is to run away, then maybe this was a bad idea.
Did I misinterpret her lingering glances as something more?
Do I have it all wrong?
I always thought our relationship needed a push, an extinction-level event to force evolution, but I may have been wrong, and it’s a sour feeling.
After twenty minutes of sitting alone with my depressing thoughts, I rise to find her, when her laughter fills the air. My chest bubbles with warmth at the sweet sound. She walks beside a petite woman with wavy brown hair and a massive bag that screams “I mean business.”
Charlie’s wearing her sweatshirt again when she sits down, and I bite back the frown pulling at my lips. Do my words mean nothing to her?
“Mateo, this is Sofía. She’s the project coordinator for RogueWave.”
Sofía reaches out a hand, and begrudgingly, I shift my attention away from Charlie and her bewilderment.
“Mateo,” I say, and as my name rolls off my tongue, Sofía’s head tilts.
“?Hablas espanol?” she asks.
Does my abuela make the world’s best tamales? Of course she does. The ratio of masa to filling is crucial, and she nails it every time.
I nod but answer in English for Charlie’s benefit. “I moved from Mexico City when I was ten.”
I was terrified to move, to leave Mexico and my friends, but my dad got a promotion as chief engineer for the automotive company he worked for, and they sent him to Detroit.
“My family is from Monterrey.” She’s cut off by a loud ruckus at the front. “Jett is here.”
Sofía exhales a shuddered breath as a small pack of people closes in on our table. Jett leads the group, and he is exactly how he appears in his videos. Slightly scruffy appearance, complete with a faded graphic t-shirt, cargo shorts, and scuffed-up checkered Vans.
I would bet the entirety of my savings account he played or still plays Hacky Sack.
A backward hat sits atop his head, covering his shoulder-length hair, and Charlie giggles as he extends a fist, and she fist-bumps him.
“Dudes and dudettes,” he yells. “You two must be my super geniuses. Gotta say, I thought you two were a bit older. ”
Charlie giggles—again. That’s two giggles for Jett in two minutes, when I have yet to receive a single giggle in the two years of knowing her.
“Our advisors had previous commitments,” she says, “but we are way cooler.”
“Right on.” Jett pumps a fist into the air. “What do we think? Shirley Temples for the table?”
“Extra cherries?” Charlie asks, fanning herself with a menu.
Jett grins, and I track the interaction, jealousy raging in my chest. I want Charlie’s smile and giggles, but instead, I have to witness her offer them to someone else.
“I’m Mateo,” I say, shifting Jett’s attention. “Really looking forward to the trip.”
“Dude, it’s going to be amazeballs . I did a whole segment on my YouTube about real-life aliens, and it was killer .”
Moments later, he’s back to chatting with Charlie, and I’m left to watch them, her laughter infectious as they joke back and forth.
There’s an energy about Charlie—one I’m not sure she knows she possesses—where people gravitate toward her.
Quick-witted and funny, she has an orbit that’s easy to fall into, and it’s clear the others agree.
I only wish she would fall into my orbit, too.
The sun sets in the sky, basking Charlie’s silhouette in hues of soft pinks and purples. The air has cooled, and a soft, salty summer breeze cuts the heat. An acoustic band sits in the back of the bar, preceded by a small dance floor full of couples swaying to the slow ’70s songs .
Charlie chats with Sofía, the two of them speaking in low whispers. Every few minutes, they glance in my direction, or Jett’s, and giggle. It’s infuriating but also adorable to watch Charlie act like a schoolgirl on the playground.
On one occasion, I wink, curious to witness her reaction, and it could have been the sunset or fairy lights hanging above us, but I could have sworn her cheeks were rosy.
Moments like that lead me to believe we could have a shot. She’s attracted to me, at least physically, if her lingering stares are any indication, but that’s a long shot from seeing me as a partner.
The song ends and the beginning notes of “Dancing Queen” by ABBA ring out. Charlie’s head jerks toward the band, and she bobs her head to the energetic beat.
She loves this song.
Her soft smile, and the blush earlier, is what drags me from my seat to stand in front of her, palm outstretched.
“Dance with me, bruja , ” I demand, my words holding a silent plea.
Take my hand. Show me I have a shot.
“I can’t dance.” Her gaze holds a million questions as it darts between my face and palm. It’s not a denial, so I grab her hand and drag her onto the dance floor. “Mateo, what are you doing?” She squeals, “Let me go .”
“Not until you’re having fun,” I yell over the music, spinning her around twice until her marvelous giggle fills the air.
When she’s facing me again, I place a hand on her hip, guiding us through a rough salsa. She steps on my toes and stumbles, trying to pull away, but I draw her closer, quickening the pace until she finds a rhythm.
I shimmy my shoulders before launching her into another spin, hoping I get a smile this time, a real one where the joy overtakes her. Bafflement flashes across Charlie’s face before it’s replaced by the version I crave .
“Having fun yet?”
“Yes,” she responds like she’s shocked by her answer. “Now spin me again.”
I heed her demand a dozen times by the end of the night, her delightful giggles replaying in my mind until the moment I fall asleep.