I blinked. “You don’t know?”
He looked almost boyish then, with his open collar and sun-touched skin, grinning at me like he had a secret. “You need to let loose,princesa. It’s all about the adventure.”
A laugh escaped me, quiet but real. I wasn’t used to not having a plan. And yet, with him, the not-knowing didn’t bother me.
We wandered for a while longer, the night wrapping around us like silk. I paused when a little boutique caught my eye. It was tucked between a surfboard shop and a tinycafé, its lights dimming as the shopkeeper began to close for the night.
In the display window, perched on a velvet stand, was a delicate red hibiscus hair clip. The ruby petals sparkled faintly under the light, rich and vibrant – the color of summer, passion, and everything in between.
I lingered just a second too long before turning away to keep walking. But when I glanced back at Matteo, he was no longer beside me.
“Matteo?” I turned in a small circle, spotting him inside the boutique, exchanging a few quick words with the shopkeeper through the half-closed door. Before I could even ask what he was doing, he was back outside, walking toward me with something hidden behind his back.
He stopped in front of me, eyes dancing with mischief, and then held out his hand. Resting on his palm was the hibiscus hair clip.
I gasped softly. “Matteo…”
He smiled, a warmth in his gaze that made my stomach flutter. “May I?”
For a heartbeat, I forgot how to speak. I could only nod.
He stepped closer, so close I could feel his cologne – clean and warm, like cedarwood and the ocean. Gently, he lifted his hands to my hair, brushing a few loose strands away from my temple. His fingertips grazed my skin, light as air, but the touch sent goosebumps racing down my neck and arms.
When he slid the clip into place, his eyes lingered on mine, dark and intent. We stood there, caught in a bubble of silence, the night bustling on around us but not touching us at all.
I turned to catch my reflection in the boutique’s glass window. The hibiscus sparkled against my hair, bright and beautiful.
Looking back at him, I felt a smile spread across my lips. “Thank you. I love it.”
His answering smile was slow, deep, and devastating. “Come on,” he extended his hand, nodding toward the street ahead. “Let’s see what else they’ve got in this town.”
And just like that, I took his hand.
We kept walking, weaving through the warm-lit streets hand in hand, our fingers laced together so naturally it almost startled me when I noticed it. His palm was large and hot against mine, grounding, like he’d always held my hand.
Matteo suddenly slowed down, scanning the street with a strange glimmer in his eye.
I tilted my head at him. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, that infuriating, beautiful grin spread across his face, lighting it up in a way that made my stomach flip. He turned to the left, squinted toward something in the distance, and then looked back at me, eyes gleaming.
“Come with me,” he said, tugging at my hand.
Before I could question him further, we were jogging down the street, hand in hand like a couple of reckless teenagers. I laughed – loud and unrestrained – as my heels clicked against the concrete streets and the night air whipped around us.
The deeper we ventured into the heart of the town, the louder the music became. A low, pulsing rhythm echoed through the streets, wrapping around us like a heartbeat. Drums. Guitar. Trumpets. And that unmistakable sultry Latin beat that made you want to move.
By the time we turned the corner, the sound was unmistakable.
There it was – a Latin club nestled between two stone buildings, glowing like an ember. The line to get in stretched halfway down the block, people laughing and swaying in line, hips already moving to the rhythm floating out the open doors.
Matteo didn’t hesitate. He headed straight for the entrance, dragging me along.
“Matteo,” I hissed under my breath, half laughing. “There’s a line!”
He glanced at me, wicked amusement in his eyes. “Not for us.”
We cut straight to the front, earning a few muttered curses and raised brows from the people waiting. The bouncer, a mountain of a man in black, straightened in his chair as we approached, his hand already half-lifting in a silent ‘back of the line’ gesture.
