Chapter 8 Fiesta With a Side of Doubt
FIESTA WITH A SIDE OF DOUBT
Lety
What did one wear on a first date with their new boyfriend, who also happens to be your boss? What straddled the line between sexy and professionalism? It would have helped if César had given me more information about the party, but the most I got out of him was “look nice.”
The fuck does that mean?
Luckily, I didn’t end up having to figure out his words because a large, white box showed up to my door with a red bow on it and a card sticking out. I quickly grabbed the card and read the note.
Wear this tomorrow —César
The man bought me a dress. In my size. How the fuck he knew my size is beyond me, and I don’t know if I’m flattered or concerned he knows these intimate details about me, but I’m too in love with the dress to care.
The day of the party, I slip on my new red dress, embracing the perfect balance between elegance and danger.
Red is also my color, which César clearly picked up on.
The fabric clings to my bodice, sculpting my figure with a deep neckline that toes the line between tasteful and sinful.
The waist cinches just right before the skirt flares out in soft folds, brushing just below my knees.
A subtle slit teases a glimpse of leg with every step, drawing the eye down to the strappy black heels I’ve been dying to wear—sexy, sharp, and long overdue for their moment.
The way César’s eyes darken, the predatory look on his face when he picks me up, is a look I’ll never forget.
“You picked out a good one,” I say when he doesn’t speak, too preoccupied with looking me over. “How did you know my size?”
“Guessed,” he grunts, like a caveman only capable of single words.
Then he says, “You look fucking breathtaking.” His body—and truthfully, mine too—scream bedroom, and as much as I want to give into that temptation, I also don’t want to ruin hours of hard work I spent to get ready to meet his friends.
Which is why I lead us to his, making sure we are both buckled in and ready for whatever the hell he has planned for us.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or do you just like keeping me in the dark?” I ask when I can no longer stand the silence between us.
César’s lips quirk up in a half smile. “You don’t trust me?”
“It has nothing to do with trust, and everything to do with being a nosey bitch and wanting to know where my boy—” I cut myself off.
Calling him my boyfriend still feels so strange on my tongue.
Not bad, exactly, just different. Different can be good, right?
There’s no doubt I like him—crave him even—but there’s still a part of me that doesn’t believe I deserve him.
César’s grip on the steering wheel turns his knuckles white. His big truck suddenly feels like a clown call.
“I’m not your boyfriend, Lety.”
His words slice through me, sharper than any blade. The air leaves my lungs in a staggered gasp as if he’s just struck me in the chest. My vision blurs with tears that threaten to spill before I can blink them away. A tremble runs through my hands.
How could he say that after everything? After the way he looked at me, touched me, whispered things no one else ever had? I thought I meant something more. I felt it. God, had I imagined all of it?
My heart twists painfully in my chest, each beat hammering the same cruel question: Did I get it all wrong?
Maybe he does want me—but not in the way I’d hoped. Not in the way I need.
Before I can go further down this dark path, César takes my face in his hands. I try to flinch away, but he holds me in place. I didn’t even notice he stopped driving and had pulled up to a fancy-looking hotel, too consumed with my own spiraling thoughts after his shitty words.
“I’m not your boyfriend, Lety.”
Is this man fucking serious? Now I’m pissed. “I heard you the first fucking time, you dick. I’m just another mark in your bed, is that it? You know, you really had me believing I was worth something to you.” I let out a bitter laugh, holding back a sob. “I can’t believe—”
“I’m not your boyfriend, Lety, because what I feel for you can’t be captured with such a pathetic title.”
My breath hitches in my throat for a completely different reason.
“What do you mean?” I all but whisper, not wanting to get my hopes up.
“I mean that you’re my future. You’ve taken over every part of me—my thoughts, my breath, even the space in my chest where my heart once lived.
‘Boyfriend’?” He shakes his head, eyes burning into mine.
“That word feels too small. Too temporary. Like something high school kids whisper in hallways. What I feel for you is deeper. It’s permanent.
It’s real. So no, I’m not your boyfriend.
I’m your man. And you’re my queen. Do you understand me? ”
My heart pounds rapidly in my chest. A feeling blossoms low in my belly. It’s bright. Airy. And completely terrifying. I can do little more than nod. It seems to satisfy him.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and leans in to kiss me. It’s just a faint touch of his lips. There and gone in seconds. “Now, get that sexy ass out of my truck so I can show you off.”
* * *
The hotel doubles as an event center, often rented out by companies and people with more money than they know what to do with. We’re directed to a room on the first floor, one already humming with conversation and clinking glasses.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along one side, offering a view of the landscaped outdoor amenities and swaying trees.
Inside, round tables draped in crisp white linens are arranged throughout the space, each adorned with elegant floral centerpieces.
Along one wall, a group of waiters busily prepare trays of food, while others glide through the crowd to offer drinks.
Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, scattering soft, rainbow-like light across the polished floor.
Classical music plays from somewhere in the room.
“What kind of party is this?” I ask once we’re inside. A server carrying glasses of what I hope is wine comes by and offers me one, which I take. César takes one, too, but doesn’t seem impressed by it as he scans the crowd.
“A celebratory party for one of my old friends. He just opened this hotel less than a month ago. Now he’s ready to show it off,” he answers before taking a sip of the wine. He makes a sour face, placing the glass down on an empty table.
“I’ll take that,” I say and scoop it up. Double-fisting two glasses of wine is pretty on-brand for me. But for ease, I pour the rest of his drink into mine before taking a sip. “It’s not bad.”
“It’s also not great.”
He has a point there, but wine is wine. I’ve survived off worse.
César places a hand on my back, guiding me deeper into the room.
As I glance around at the guests, I’m relieved to see that my outfit fits right in.
César is dressed in a black suit, expertly tailored to his frame.
His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the top, revealing just a hint of the sculpted chest I know lies beneath.
The other men wear suits, too, but César doesn’t just wear his. He owns it.
“Are you hungry?” he asks me, head swiveling around the room as if he’s looking for someone.
Before I can answer, a deep, masculine voice comes from behind us. “César, who let your ugly ass in?”
I turn just in time to see a man approaching us.
He’s tall—easily César’s height—with a powerful build that fills out his tailored black suit.
The fabric clings to his arms and shoulders, emphasizing a broad chest and the kind of physique that suggests both discipline and strength.
His beard is neatly trimmed, framing a sharp jawline, and his jet-black hair is cropped short, every strand perfectly in place.
There’s an effortless elegance about him, like he could’ve just stepped off a runway or out of a high-end fashion spread.
He’s not alone, though. A beautiful and petite woman hangs on his arm, and although she’s smiling—her pretty red lips the same shade as my own—it doesn’t meet her eyes. The way the two of them walk together is also awkward, more like they are putting on a show rather than a real couple.
César drops his hand from my back, going over to give the stranger one of those weird hugs men give where they slap each other’s back and squeeze their hand in a death grip. “I know damn well you ain’t calling me ugly, fool.”
Neither of these men are ugly. Not even close. Even the way they laugh is handsome.
The two break away, and the man’s gaze falls to me, quickly sweeping over my body before backing up. His face is unreadable, schooled like a politician, and yet somehow kind. “And what poor woman did you force to accompany you?”
The wine encourages me to move forward and offer my hand. “I’m Lety Zavala. I came here willingly, don’t worry.”
The man laughs and extends his large hand to take mine, gently shaking it. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Zavala. Even if you have the misfortune of coming with César.”
The man in question rolls his eyes before wrapping his arm around me, pulling me back to the side. I can’t help but notice the side eye the woman gives me as she takes in the two of us. I do my best to ignore it for now.
“Lety, this is Augustín Cisneros and his wife, Carmen,” César introduces.
“We’ve never seen you before,” Carmen says by way of greeting. “How did the two of you meet?” Innocent enough question, but it feels loaded coming from her.
I also don’t know how to answer. It’s not exactly taboo that I’m dating my boss, but it’s not entirely proper, either. We should have discussed this first, and I’m mentally kicking myself for not thinking about this sooner.
“Lety and I have worked together for a while now,” César says, voice confident, with none of the hesitation tightening my chest.
Carmen hums, arching one perfectly drawn brow. She taps her manicured nail against the rim of her champagne glass. “Workplace romance. Bold.”