“Which goes to show I wasn’t lying when I said I was keyed up. So? How about that drink?” Now there was a beseeching look in her tired eyes.
He recognized it well. He’d worn that same look plenty of times when he’d been young and trying like hell to stay out of ‘the life,’ and then again at the end of just about every mission he’d ever run for the SEALs where he’d been forced to mete out death and destruction. It was the look someone wore when they weren’t physically tired, but instead suffering from a mental exhaustion that made them want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
Against every single ounce of his better judgment, he pressed open her hotel room door and gestured for her to precede him. “By all means then, lead the way.”
I will not look at her ass. I will not look at her ass. I will not…
He looked at her ass as he followed her into the room because he couldn’tnotlook.
Mia was a slight woman, with thin arms and legs, a narrow waist and small breasts. But when it came to her posterior?
Sisquo said it best. The woman had dumps like a truck. One of those perfect peach-shaped butts made for twerking or for smacking gently when a man was doing her from be—
Head out of the gutter,pendejo!
He gave himself a mental slap and forced his gaze away from her juicy behind. Since the only other thing to look at was her hotel room, he gave it a once-over.
Queen bed, wood veneer desk, and mini-fridge. It wasn’t the Ritz-Carlton, by any means. Certainly not the luxury she’d grown up with in Chicago. But exactly as she had done while settling into the Wayfarer Island beach house, she seemed to have made herself at home.
Her expensive skincare products were neatly arranged on the bathroom vanity, perfuming the air with their scent. It was an aroma he liked to call “money.” Her overnight bag was open and some of its contents were laid out on the bed. A pink T-shirt. Pink sleep shorts. Pink panties.
When she saw the ensemble, she blushed and hastily shoved everything back into her bag. Her cheeks were the exact color as the garments she’d hidden away.
What other parts of her are cotton candy pink?he wondered. Then,No, goddamnit! You’re here as a friend, a compadre, a drinking buddy. Get that through your thick skull!
Moving to the mini-fridge, she squatted and scanned the little bottles of liquor. “What’s your poison?”
When he was quiet for too long because he’d forced his gaze to the ceiling, she turned to frown at him over her shoulder.
“Would I be a total cliché if I admitted it’s tequila?” He tried to insert levity into the awkwardness of the situation.
He’d never been in a woman’s hotel room without taking her in his arms and kissing her lips until she begged him to kiss other parts of her that were decidedlylowerthan that.
What the fuck am I supposed to do now? Sit on the bed? Grab the desk chair? Keep standing here like a complete and total assclown?
“Why would that be cliché?” She blinked at him.
“Uh.” He drew his eyebrows together. “Because I’m second-generation Mexican-American?” He pointed to his face. “If this doesn’t give it away, then surely my name does. Spiro Delgado?”
“Oh.” She looked embarrassed. “Right.” She shook her head. “I’m usually quicker on the uptake than that. Blame it on the letdown of adrenaline.”
Grabbing a plastic cup, she upended the mini bottle of Jose Cuervo into it. “Ice?” she asked.
His grandmother had always taught him good tequila was for sipping, straight up, or with a sangrita chaser. But Cuervo wasn’t made with one-hundred-percent blue agave, so he told Mia, “Couple of cubes,” as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling like the walls were closing in on him.
One drink, he told himself.You can endure this for one drink.
After handing him the tequila, she chose the bottle of Bombay Sapphire for herself and emptied it into a cup she’d filled to the brim with ice. Taking a quick sip, she motioned with her hand toward the desk chair. “Sorry. I’m being a terrible hostess. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
He settled into the faux leather seat, feeling each one of the hours since he’d risen with the sun that morning. She arranged herself cross-legged on the end of the bed.
He thought they might sit and sip in awkward silence, so he was relieved when she said, “Your name is Spiro, but everyone calls you Romeo. Why is that?”
“Well…” he began, absently scratching his chin and then smoothing the goatee hairs he’d ruffled. “I tell my mother it’s because I’m like the character in the play, handsome”—he wiggled his eyebrows—“intelligent and sensitive.”
She smiled slightly over the rim of her drink. “And what’s therealstory behind the nickname?”
He was a little chagrined to admit, “In my younger years, when I was a fresh-faced squid, I was known to be a bit of a…” He searched for the right phrase.Horn dog?Nah. Too middle school.Man whore?Nope. Too disrespectful. “Ladies’ man,” he finally finished.
