Chapter 25
Charlie
Raucous chatter fills the lounge area overflowing with boat and production crew, who are enjoying the evening off as the vessel transits to a new location. Bottles of cheap beer and wine litter the bar counter in the corner, and Sofía laughs as Jett mimics a horrible Australian accent.
A dozen things happen at once, but every brain cell I possess is focused on one thing: Mateo’s hand resting on my thigh, perilously close to where his face was last night.
The sexual tension has been thick all day, twisting me tighter and tighter until I’m ready to combust. Lingering touches in the lab. Longing looks across the room. Whispered words as he passes by. I’m a firecracker ready to explode.
My inner thighs ache from the beard burn he left behind—a constant reminder of him.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t self-conscious of how I looked or what scars he might see, but rather, I could experience the moment as it was.
I didn’t realize how badly I’ve trapped myself in my mind until I felt the freedom I’ve denied myself .
I didn’t get lost in the anxious thoughts because Mateo tethered me to earth.
Speaking of the devil, Mateo swipes his thumb against my inner thigh, right atop the raw flesh, pulling a hiss. His eyebrows scrunch while he repeats the action.
“Are you hurt?” he whispers.
“I’m fine.” I’ll apply some cream on it tonight when I oil my joints, and by morning, I won’t have to hobble when I walk. Plus, I like the sting. It’s a reminder of what happened and how I felt. He doesn’t look like he believes me, so I add, “It’s a bit raw from your beard.”
“Oh.”
His face is stoic before it blooms into a pleased smile, overflowing with male pride. I try to school my features, to prevent my own, but it cracks through anyway.
He removes his hand to place a card down on the table, then glances at me, and his delight morphs into something smug from the take four Uno card sitting on top of the pile.
“Are you serious?”
“As the plague. Take eight, bruja.” He pushes the pile of cards in my direction. “All is fair in love and war.”
I scowl at Mateo, and Jett releases a belly laugh, banging on the table.
“This isn’t war, it’s freaking Uno,” I yell, clutching the two dozen cards already in my grip, thanks to Mateo and Jett, who have been harassing me all evening.
“And you’re losing,” Jett adds. “You do know you’re supposed to get rid of the cards, not collect more.”
I hate them.
Sofía and Vivian stifle their laughter, and I glare daggers at them. What happened to best friends at sea? Do the sacred bonds of boat friendships mean nothing anymore?
“Traitors,” I cough, fixing my glare on them .
“I’m glad it’s not me,” Sofía says as I begrudgingly take the eight cards.
“I would never betray you,” Jett whispers, winking at her.
She turns away, but I see her crimson cheeks.
“Did you hear that, Mateo? Jett would never betray her.” I lay the sarcasm on thick.
Mateo cackles. He fucking cackles. “If I let you win, you would force me to play again, just to prove you could win without me handing it to you.”
I nearly draw blood from how hard I bite the inside of my cheek. Because he knows he’s right, he winks and returns his focus to the table.
We work in a circle while everyone’s cards dwindle. Well, everyone’s except mine. Mateo’s hand returns to sit on my thigh, his fingers playing a silent tune as they tap my skin. He places down a card with his free hand, looks me dead in my eyes, and calls out, “Uno.”
The table is a chorus of “whats” and “hows” as he holds a single card in his grip.
His concentration never wavers and mirth swirls in his gaze. This was his plan all along. Have them focus on sabotaging me so they stop paying attention to him.
Evil genius.
I shake my head in disbelief.
Everyone panics, shuffling through their cards to find a skip or debating what color he has. It’s futile. Mateo is many things, and brilliant is at the top of the list, right beside charming.
In the week and a half we’ve been on the boat, I’ve realized maybe I know more about him than I thought.
Sure, I didn’t know his favorite color or how he likes his eggs—scrambled with hot sauce—but I know him .
I know he needs to read in special fonts on his computer, otherwise his temples throb with a headache.
I can identify all of his tics. Running his fingers through his hair when he’s unsettled.
Humming when he’s content. I can decipher each of his smiles and understand the meaning behind them.
I know him, which means I know he’s holding a wild card in his hand.
It doesn’t matter what color they change it to or if they skip him.
The only way he loses is if the person in front of him plays a take four.
That person is me—thanks to Jett’s reverse card—and while I have a billion options, none of them will add to his deck or delay his inevitable victory.
“How did you get rid of your cards so quickly?” Vivian questions.
He shrugs. I lay down my card, and Mateo drops his wild on top. His shoulder grazes mine, causing my skin to buzz.
“He’s clever,” I groan. “He lures you in with his good looks and kind smile, then bam ! He takes the victory, and you’re none the wiser that it was his plan all along.”
I’m working myself up into a tizzy, but I’ve been strung tight all day from his touch, and now I’ve lost in a card game. I hate losing. Mateo’s lips quiver as he fights laughter, and Vivian is outright cackling, her face red from lack of oxygen.
Add poor loser to my list of undesirable attributes.
It wouldn’t have hurt as badly if I wasn’t part of Mateo’s grand plan for victory, using me as a pig for slaughter.
I can slash any worry that the change in our relationship would alter our dynamic.
He’s still annoying as ever, only now I find it endearing and weirdly hot rather than the bane of my existence.
He’s still a cocky asshole, but now he’s my cocky asshole.
“If you’re trying to insult me, you’re doing a poor job.”
Jett, Vivian, and Sofía watch us like we’re prime time TV, and the urge to kiss the victory off his face is overwhelming. The only thing stopping me is the others. I don’t think I’m ready for public displays of affection yet.
Mateo’s hand on my thigh was anxiety-inducing enough .
“You’ll pay for this, carino , ” I mutter, dropping my cards into the pile.
Mateo beams the same way he always does when I call him the silly nickname, like it’s the greatest word in the world.
“What? Are you going to curse me again?” The rest of the room fades away as he fake glares at me. “It went so well last time.”
“Listen, carino,” I start, jabbing a finger at him, “I will cut your CPAP cord if you don’t—”
“That’s so sweet,” Sofía coos, glancing between Mateo and me.
Uh…I’m not sure how sweet my threat to destroy his medical equipment is.
Mateo pales, examining the walls with immense curiosity.
“What exactly is sweet, Sofía?”
I have an idea, but I want her to confirm my hypothesis. Mateo refuses to meet my stare. I’m not sure if I want to smack him, laugh, or kiss him. A combination of all three, really.
“That you call him carino…” Sofía trails off, confused.
“What does carino mean?” Jett asks.
“Yeah, Mateo. What does carino mean? Please, enlighten us.”
He knows he’s been caught, but when his glassy greens return to mine, they’re full of fire and passion.
“Sweetheart. Carino translates to sweetheart or honey.”
“And would you like to tell the group what you told me it means?” I prod.
“Annoying asshole,” Mateo grumbles, though his expression is victorious as the group laughs.
Vivian nearly falls over in her seat, cackling like a hyena. Jett is snorting, his worn-out beanie slipping off his head as it’s tipped back in laughter. Sofía shakes her head at Mateo with a soft grin.
“Are you going to stop calling me the nickname?” he asks, his voice quiet. There’s a thread of uncertainty in the question, and I pause. Does he think I’m truly upset?
I rest my palm on his thigh, above the butterfly tattoo .
“No.” I squeeze his leg. “You’re my carino. Both meanings,” I whisper, offering him a truth that frightens me.
He is both my annoying asshole and my sweetheart.
When Mateo exits the bathroom, I’m going to pounce on him like a cheetah attacking its prey, but slowly, because my joints ache from standing in the lab for hours and sitting crisscross in the uncomfortable chairs in the lounge.
It’s always a mistake to bend my knees and ankles for long periods of time, and my hip screams in its socket.
I’m standing right outside the door, waiting like a creep.
When people would talk about the incorrigible itch they felt with someone else, I always waved them off as lovesick fools who couldn’t separate physical attraction from emotional connection.
Now I’ve turned into one of those lovesick fools I’ve laughed at.
The door cracks open and he reappears, hair wet from his shower and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Gray sweatpants drape low on his hips, and his shoulders pull against the worn-down URI t-shirt.
“You don’t have to change in the bathroom,” I blurt out. "Or wear clothes. You don’t need to do that, either."
Fucking cool it, Charlie .
Mateo laughs deeply, quirking a brow.
“Is that so?”
My cheeks flame, but I double down on my comment and nod, stepping toward him.
“Why are you hobbling? ”
I wave him off, wrapping my arms around his waist to try to climb him like a tree. I’ve never been this horny in my life, and if he doesn’t take his clothes off in the next thirty seconds, I may scream.
Mateo leans into the embrace, his cheek falling onto mine.
No!
This is not an emotional moment, this is a “tear each other’s clothes off like horny animals” moment. Mateo needs to catch up.
“You’re supposed to kiss me,” I say, directing him. “That’s how it goes.”
His hands trail down my back, palming the globes of my ass. It ignites a fire in my veins, and lust settles in my lower stomach. Mateo’s tongue darts out as his pupils dilate. I shiver, and based on his hoarse laugh, he knows the effect he has but is choosing to do nothing about it.
“Have you ever heard of buildup, bruja?”
He squeezes my ass, and I yelp.
“You’ve built me up. Now tear my clothes off .”
I pull at the hem of his shirt to get the party going, but my hip locks up and I stumble into his chest.
“ Why are you hobbling?”
“It’s my joints. I’m fine.” I tug at his shirt again, but he stands firm, so I add, “I just need to oil up the ole hinges, and then we can get this party started.” His eyebrows pull down in confusion. Neptune on a cracker . “ Sex , Mateo. The party I’m referring to is sex.”
Taking his hand, I drag him to the bed.
“Charlie.” His voice is full of laughter as I push him onto the mattress.
He hauls me with him so I’m lying flush against his chest. The green of his irises is deeper in the cabin’s dim light, like looking up from the forest floor before the first rays of dawn. Dozens of small freckles pepper his nose, something I’ve never noticed before.
I’m counting them when he trails a hand down my cheek.
“Why do your joints ache? ”
“Chronic post-traumatic arthritis.” I shiver as Mateo traces my scar. “The scars, pins, and spleen removal weren’t enough. The universe gave me chronic pain on top of it. Really, I’m fine.”
“You say that a lot.” He hums. “ I’m fine . You don’t need to be ‘fine.’ Not with me.” It’s hard to look at him, but even more difficult to look away. “I’m not afraid.”
He may not be, but I still am.
Every day, I’m taking another step. They’re small and unsure, and more often than not, I’m freaking the fuck out, but I’m putting one foot in front of the other—for him, for myself, and for the future that’s forming in my mind’s eye.
“How do you really feel?” he asks.
Well, I was incredibly horny, which hasn’t entirely disappeared, considering his erection is digging into my lower stomach, but beneath it all, I’m tired.
“My joints are on fire,” I admit.
“Do you have anything that helps?”
His hands gently run over my back, up and down along my spine.
“I have a balm.” I scoot off his chest to grab the Tiger Balm I keep on hand. “It’s smelly.”
Mateo takes the small glass container and sniffs. He jerks back, surprised, before taking a deep breath. He’s smiling like he’s discovered something groundbreaking.
“It smells like you ,” he says, clutching the container. “I could never figure out the scent. I only knew it smelled like you. ”
My heart is doing this odd pitter-pattering thing, and it’s so strong I think the muscle might jump right out of my body.
“I got a whiff of it in a grocery store once,” he admits, smiling to himself, “and I searched for you.”
I slip into my pajamas so I can apply the balm, but when I try to take the jar, Mateo pulls it close to his chest.
“Can I? ”
My head tilts. “Huh?”
“Can I apply it for you?”
Oh .
Words clog my throat, but I manage a nod and sit back on the bed, allowing my legs to dangle. He scoops out a small glob of the orange paste.
“Where do you need it?”
“Hip and knees.”
Mateo drops to his knees, spreads mine open, and smears the balm over the aching joint. He’s focused on his task, massaging my sore muscles and working the balm into the skin.
This is a different type of intimacy—one I’m not used to. His touch isn’t electric or meant to lead to more. It’s methodical and intentional, each stroke of his thumb meant to relieve pain and tension.
He moves from my knees to my hip, and I curl onto my side. I can’t help the groan that escapes when his thumb digs into the tension in my lower back. Mateo huffs a laugh while his hand lingers on the surgical scar along my hip, then taps my ass.
“All done,” he says, placing a soft kiss on my shoulder before returning the balm to my bag.
“Thank you.”
He stops to admire his work, and my heart skips a beat.
I’m so fucking screwed.