The nickname alone made something in my stomach tighten with immediate irritation.
I was definitely not here to be someone’s entertainment.
Whoever this was had either not noticed—or had deliberately ignored—the fact that I wasn’t looking at anything at all.
“I’m blind,” I said bluntly.
A beat of silence followed.
“What?” he said, surprised at first, then quickly recovering with an easy laugh that tried too hard to sound natural. “As if that changes anything?”
I didn’t respond immediately.
He leaned closer—not touching, but invading space in a way I could feel immediately.
“You are easily the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in a long time,” he continued smoothly, as if compliments were currency he spent without thinking. “My friends and I are having a good time on the dance floor. I was thinking you might like to be my partner for a dance.”
A dance.
With someone who couldn’t see the floor, the rhythm, or the crowd.
How considerate.
I lifted an eyebrow, even though he couldn’t see it, letting sarcasm sharpen my tone.
“Shouldn’t a proper gentleman ask whether I can even dance before offering me his hand?”
A low chuckle followed, closer now.
“My bad,” he said lightly. “I’m Marcelo, by the way. And you?”
Marcelo.
I repeated it silently in my mind, filing it away without interest.
I brought the glass back to my lips and took another slow sip of rum, letting the warmth settle before answering him.
The burn steadied me more than it should have.
“Loretta,” I said simply.
A pause.
Then I set the glass down carefully, fingers trailing the rim to ensure I didn’t spill.
“I’m sorry, Marcelo,” I said evenly, “but I’ll have to decline. I’m not in the mood to dance tonight.”
There was another pause.
Shorter this time.
Like he was recalculating.
“Well...” The stool beside me scraped faintly against the floor as he sat down without asking.
I stiffened slightly, immediately aware of the intrusion.
“I hope you don’t mind me sitting here?” he added, almost lazily.
