Chapter 21
After my live interview, I slip into to my glam tent—filled with the sweet scent of violets from the vase on the coffee table—and plop onto the couch. I think I actually succeeded at being myself out there. It helped that I kept my focus on Miguel and not the audience.
It also helped that the stage was bathed in a false daylight thanks to the four metal towers supporting a series of huge lights and a floating camera system, so I couldn’t see into the bleachers.
“The audience is full of celebs,” Haydée notes, peeking alongside Mateo through the opening of my fancy tent.
“Don’t name names,” I say, removing my shoes with a sigh. “I don’t want to know.”
My confidence is as flimsy as the covering of this dress.
“Oh, you want to know,” Haydée says.
Ay, who am I kidding. Standing, I walk around the couch, nudge between them, and peek out.
I didn’t take note of who was in the bleachers before, but now I can see a football player, last year’s winner from Dance Your Bleep Off, a country music star and his actress wife, and of course all my fellow FTW contestants. Ay. I shouldn’t have looked.
“Sil’s L.A. connections have really drawn a lot of big-name stars,” Mateo says. “Parker’s using a drone to get some great shots of Sil and their celebrity visitors while zooming out to the ocean and the moon. It’s going to look great.”
Haydée and I stare at him open mouthed. He’s been spending a lot of time around Parker and the crew, and that has nothing to do with tonight’s show. He won’t be accompanying me musically for the dance because we’ve practiced and are dancing to “Despacito” by Daddy Yankee.
“I can’t even with you two,” Haydée says. “It’s like my entire family has a thing for someone on this show.”
“Shhh,” I warn my cousin, waving both hands. “His tent is right there.” I point at the left side of our tent.
“He can’t hear us over the generators. Besides, he just walked out. He’s being interviewed by the host and schmoozing with the judges.”
He is? I look back out at the stage. The confidence I’d been feeling drains away.
“Ay,” Haydée says. “He looks gooood.” She draws out the last word for emphasis.
Not just good. High-waisted black pants accentuate thick muscular thighs and his firm, round ass. A white silk shirt sports a V so deep it showcases his God of Thunder abs. That outfit, this man, on the beach under the stars, has my hormones spiking. It seems impossible that I’ve had that gorgeous man in my mouth. Throbbing under my tongue. His moans singeing my ears. His fingers digging into my hair. That I teased and sucked his hard length, delighted in the silk and steel of him, and when he came, groaning out, “Fuck, Yolanda,” to the night sky, I’d nearly come myself.
He made sure I did a few minutes later.
“You okay?” Mateo asks, bringing me crashing out of my very inappropriate thoughts.
I nod stupidly.
“Don’t worry,” Haydée says, flinging the fringe dangling around my legs with a flap of her hands, “this dress will make you the center of attention. Not just for an hour—you’ll have a starring role in many men’s dreams tonight, including Easton Blake’s.”
I snort laughter. Mateo looks horrified, but, I have to admit, the glittery gold spaghetti straps and tight bodice on this dress accentuate my body and breasts in a way that has me feeling sexy and even a little dangerous.
The two-minute warning sounds, and like a dog that’s been trained to pant at the dinner bell, my heart leaps into my throat and my muscles go tight. This is it.
Néstor pokes his head inside. “You remember the itinerary?” he asks with a tone as casual as the act of him pushing up his glasses with the edge of his digital tablet.
“Yes. Gracias.”
He gives me a doubtful look and says, “Easton will leave the stage now. We’ll go to footage you shot earlier. When we return from that video, Miguel will intro the judges, then Easton. You’ll take the stage last, a grand entrance. Got it?”
I find Néstor’s sharp handling of me and the other contestants annoying, but I give him slack since I know it can’t be easy with Parker making a million last-minute changes. “Yes. Sí. Got it.”
The eyes behind Néstor’s black-rimmed glasses swing toward Haydée, then Mateo. He bites back something, literally biting his bottom lip, before leaving.
Mateo squeezes my hand. “I’m going to take my seat in the stands. Tienes esto.”
I’m praying he’s right and that I do have this. Surprisingly, it’s not my performance I’m most worried about. Although Easton and I trained separately—each with our own dance instructor—we’ve practiced the same steps, to the same music, and I’m confident in my abilities. It’s the thought of dancing with Easton in front of everyone that has my nerves and heart jumping.
“Ay, look at you.” Haydée comes over, fusses with my hair, applies another round of lipstick, then surprises me by retrieving my dance shoes from the floor where I’d left them.
Kneeling down, she puts them on my feet herself. An expert who has dressed many a model, she finishes strapping them on in all of two seconds.
Standing, she takes one more look at me. “Perfecto,” she says, air-kissing me near my cheek. At the tent opening, she turns back to me. Her dark, Cleopatra-lined eyes trace my appearance one more time. “Verdad. When he gets a look at you, Easton Blake will swallow his tongue. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has to dance with a hard-on for the whole show.”
Despite the crudeness of her words, I burst into laughter.
She smiles back at me. “Don’t be afraid to use that, nena. Be ruthless.”
Blowing me a kiss, she leaves. Despite the fact that she had to drag me, kicking and screaming, into this outfit, I’m grateful for her design and her experience. Ruthlessly sexy. Sí. Tengo esto.