Rather than recoiling in incredulous horror, the confession earns me an actual moan as she probes her tongue even deeper into my mouth. Elle releases my tie and slides her hands over my chest, under my jacket, and around to my back to hold me in place against her. There’s no way she can possibly miss the hard-on straining against my slacks, and she’s still undeterred. In fact, she’s apparently totally on board with the suggestion.
She catches my bottom lip between her teeth. “Take me back to the room. We can rescue Isla tomorrow.”
Another chuckle forces its way out of me, and there is nothing more intoxicating than humor spliced with the throes of lust. I’m about to wholeheartedly agree with the idea, when the universe bats a line drive straight to my head that reminds me of where we are and what this really is.
“Hey, lovebirds!” Liliana’s voice cuts through the night air. “Are you guys coming to hang out, or what?”
The entire mission for having Elle here with me has been fulfilled, and doing what I just suggested would be a shameless, unnecessary indulgence. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting it, and I have serious doubts that it’s going to deter me.
Elle rips her mouth from mine and whips her head around. “Coming!” She turns back toward me and snickers deviously. “Lovebirds.” She snorts—a literalsnort. “I guess your unoriginal and stupid idea worked.”
I raise my eyebrows and cock my head. “Guess so.”
A sober, yet warm smile stretches across her lips as she meets my eyes, and I briefly wonder if this is when she’s going to backtrack on begging me to take her back to the room; remind me that only two days ago she said,I’m not having sex with you, Colin. But what she actually says is the polar opposite.
“I think it’s cute that we’re believable aslovebirds.”
The formerly-dashed hope does a surge in my chest, and I lift my hand off her back to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I think so, too.”
Her smile lingers until she pushes away from my chest and grabs my hand to tug me toward the guest cottage. “Let’sgooo…” she commands with another tipsy giggle, and who am I kidding?
If she were sober, she wouldn’t be playful like this. If there wasn’t a million dollars riding on anything, she wouldn’t be here at all. And when we get in the car on Sunday, we’ll be back in reality, and the hope that just resurfaced inside me is going to evaporate exactly like it did when I stepped into the conference room six months ago.
“Okay, she’shot,” Joaquin says as we’re standing next to the mahogany bar in the large living room of the guest cottage. He’s the eldest son of Fortuna and Ernesto, and if there was one person I was worried about not believing this charade, it was him. After all, he’s the oldest, closest friend that I have. Ifhebelieves Elle and I are actually together, I’m one-hundred-percent in the clear, which, of course, means there’s no real need for any morecouple-ybehavior. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.
I jab him in the side with my elbow, hovering a tumbler of whiskey at the level of my waist. “Eyes on your own chick.” I pause, offering him a shit-eating grin. “Ohwait. You don’t have one here.” I wave my glass in a wide arc at the room. “All you’ve got is your sisters.”
Joaquin tsks. “Man, fuck you,cabron.” He huffs. “Fuckin’ family functions.” He thrusts his glass toward me. “I hate this shit. I hate being on my best behavior in front of all those people.” He jerks his chin at Malachi, Isla’s fiancé, from whom Elle wants torescue Isla, and gives a quick, high-pitched whistle. “Yo, Mal.”
Malachi is standing at the opposite end of the bar, elbow propped against it while he swipes through his phone. “I told you not to call me that, Joaquin.” He arches one thick, dark brow. “Would you like me to call youGuac?”
Joaquintsksagain. “Man, that’sracist. You can’t go calling a Mexican boyGuac.”
Malachi’s brow drops, and his features flatten into a deadpan expression.
Boisterous laughter peals from Joaquin as he slaps his thigh and then takes a long step forward to clap the side of Malachi’s shoulder. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, brother. Chill out.”
Malachi drags a glance to his shoulder and then tugs one of his lapels as if straightening out any invisible wrinkles.
“Jeez.” Joaquin tugs at the knot of his tie. “Tough crowd.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “You see how cranky these two have been all day?” He nods at Malachi again. “Why the fuck aren’t you two more chipper? You just got engaged.”
On one of the large sofas across the room, Isla cuts her big, brown eyes away from where she’s chatting and pounding champagne with Liliana, Graciela, the Reyes’ middle daughter, and Elle, to glare at Joaquin.
“Tal vez deberías preguntarle a papá sobre eso,” Isla snaps, the syllables of her words exiting her mouth in rapid-fire succession.
I don’t know exactly what she just said, but I know it’s not good. I only caught the one word in her sharp admonition that is relevant to me.
Papá.
Because I need to get some one-on-one time withPapá.
I catch a glimpse of Malachi ticking his jaw as he drops his gaze to look at his phone again, andjeezis right.
“Psh.” Joaquin rolls his eyes and swallows the last of his Old Fashioned. “This is why I’mnevergetting married.”
“And that’s why you’ll never get your inheritance,manito,” Graciela pipes up without missing a beat, lifting her champagne glass in the air like a victory torch. On her finger is the massive canary diamond she received only two years ago when she claimedherinheritance by marrying Agustin Kilgore. Agustin, affectionately known as Auggie, is the grandson of Waylon Kilgore, the CEO of Kilgore Enterprises, which owns the major newspapers for approximately thirty-six major US cities. At least theydid, until Auggie and Graciela got married. After that, Kilgore Enterprises was swallowed up by Ernesto’s baby, United Media Group, in one of the largest media mergers in recent history.
It was clear the marriage wasn’t exactly Graciela’s idea, but she’s never let on to being anything but perfectly content with her new life. A far cry from the current state of Isla and Malachi, apparently.
