Page 93 of Offside Angle

And fucking beautiful.

The lights catch across his face whenever he turns, flashing over the grin he hasn’t managed to lose since the final horn. His shirt is already coming untucked from dancing, his hair has given up whatever argument he had with it before leaving the hotel, and every few minutes his eyes drift toward our table, checking whether I’m still watching.

I am. Obviously.

Zara nudges my arm with her elbow. “You’re staring.”

“I know.”

She laughs into her drink. “At least you’re self-aware.”

Across the room, Matteo looks over again and catches me this time.

I don’t look away.

His grin changes immediately.

There it is.

A few seconds later, he abandons whatever Cole is saying and starts making his way toward me through the crowd. He’s clearly had enough tequila that walking in a straight line has become optional, because he clips one chair with his hip, nearly catches another with his foot, then actually mutters an apology to it.

I laugh into my glass.

By the time he reaches the table, Zara has apparently decided she values her peace and disappears without a word, leaving her drink behind.

Matteo doesn’t even notice. He drops into the chair beside me and immediately hooks one arm across the back of mine, settling close enough that his knee presses against my thigh. “You’ve been staring at me.”

His words are only slightly blurred around the edges, but his eyes are bright and pleased, like he caught me doing something I was trying to hide.

I tilt my head. “I’ve been hired to take pictures, cariño.”

Matteo glances pointedly at my empty hands. “Yeah?” He leans closer. “Where’s your camera?”

Smartass.

I pick up my phone, lift it between us, and take a picture before he can prepare for it.

He looks ridiculous. Messy hair, flushed cheeks, mouth already curling into that cocky grin he gets whenever he thinks he’s being charming.

Unfortunately, he is.

I lower the phone and let my eyes travel over him again. “Right here.”

Matteo’s gaze drops immediately to my mouth. “You always give me that look when you’re taking pictures?” he asks.

“What look?”

He shifts closer until his arm brushes mine, the smell of tequila mixing with whatever cologne he put on before we came out. “The one where I can’t tell whether you want the picture or me.”

I laugh softly. “Careful, guapo. You’re getting bold.”

His grin widens. Then he leans in until his mouth is beside my ear. “Maybe I like being bold with you.”

Well.

Apparently tequila has finally killed the last of his restraint.

I turn my head just enough that our faces are almost touching. “Did you practice that line on the way over here?”