So I decide to suck up my loneliness and find one of the three bars. I don’t want to get as drunk as I did at the horse show, where I’m flirting with the bartender until he gives me bottles of champagne just to get me to go away, but I definitely need something to help my nerves and make this night bearable.
“Hey y’all,” I say to the two bartenders, really laying my accent on thick. “How’s your night going?”
The bartenders look at each other, brows raised. Then they look back at me, not amused.
I guess y’all is the least of my problems when I don’t speak Portuguese and they don’t speak English.
“Champagne, por favor,” I tell them.
They at least understand that, and I’m handed a flute of it.
I stand there, downing it all in a few long gulps, the bubbles a straight shot to my brain, then I hand them the glass back.
“Por favor,” I say, smiling. “More please.”
The bartender’s eyes go wide, but thankfully he obliges, filling up the glass again.
I decide to take this glass and mosey away, just in case they decide to kick me out or cut me off or something. I head down the corridors of the palace, poking my head in roped-off rooms, smiling politely at all the pretty people, then paying a visit to the other two bars.
Don’t get too drunk, is playing over and over in my head, but you know what else I can’t stop thinking about?
What Marco said to me. That he feared people would think I was a redneck, of all things. Just because I said y’all, I mean what the fuck? And that he didn’t care enough to keep my company. That he was showing me off like a trophy before casting me aside for bigger and better things.
Ever since he got back from his trip, things have been different between us. I thought that maybe it was because I’ve been different. After the way things ended with Luciano, I’ve been feeling unmoored and lost and alone, like I’ve had no one in my corner. I’ve also been stressed out over money, even though I’ve tried my hardest not to show it around Marco, burying it. I don’t want him to think I’m anything but the person he wants me to be. I don’t want to be anything less than the perfect girlfriend.
I thought maybe he was pulling away because of all that, picking up on what a hot mess I secretly am. Now I’m not sure what it is. All I know is, I don’t like it. The only thing keeping my heart from being crushed right now is reminding myself that this was never meant to go anywhere, never meant to last, and I never got attached to Marco anyway, so why do I care?
But I do care. I care in a way I shouldn’t. I care because it reminds me of who I am and where I came from and what I wanted to leave behind.
I see him now, as I’m walking back into the main room, this time chatting very closely to a gorgeous girl with mile-high legs, stilettos heels and a big, white smile. I stare at him for a moment, hoping to catch his eye, but he doesn’t even look around him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him pay me that much attention.
I sigh, straightening my shoulders and then heading toward the tables piled high with canapes and desserts. This feels like high school dances all over again, where people would busy themselves with food or drink so they didn’t feel bad about not having anyone to dance with. Except back then, I was ballsy enough to go after the guys I wanted and drag them onto the dance floor.
I’m not about to do that here.
I’m biting into a bolinhos de bacalhau when I feel a presence beside me. I know who it is before I even turn to look.
“Enjoying yourself?” Luciano asks.
I don’t know what it is about his voice tonight, this low, throaty, rough quality that makes me feel undone. I close my eyes for a second, trying to steady myself, remembering that I’m somewhat drunk and I need to stay in control this time.
I twist to look at him as he moves beside me, leaning over to grab a croquete. His shiny, wavy black hair is in my face, the back of his tanned neck right there, and I can practically feel the heat radiate off of him.
“Am I enjoying myself?” I repeat. It feels like I have wings fluttering in my stomach, like every hair on my body is raised, like I’m so much more alert and real and alive when he’s around.
He pops the croquete in his mouth and chews, his eyes watching me intently. He nods, swallows. “Simple question.”
“Well it doesn’t have a simple answer,” I tell him. I gesture at the crowd. “As you can see, your brother is mingling and I’ve been left to fend for myself. Again. Seems the Ribeiro brothers are more alike than they care to realize.”
He looks momentarily apologetic, then eyes my dress, his gaze lingering on my chest for just a second, a look of fire passing through his eyes.
“God, was that so hard?” I mutter.
He blinks up at me. “Sorry, what?”
“I feel like you’ve been refusing to look at me all night.”
The corner of his mouth lifts as his eyes drift over my body. It feels like flames licking over my skin. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. It’s impossible not to look at you in that dress.”
“So, you like it?”
His expression turns serious, nostrils flaring for a moment. “Very much so,” he says quietly.
“Luciano,” someone calls out from behind us.
We both turn to see some people waving him over.
“Excuse me,” he says to me, before he goes and joins them.
I let out a harsh breath, wishing he could have stayed by my side. There’s so much I want to
