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“Every drink comes with a story,” I explain. My voice sounds huskier than normal. “About a woman accused of witchcraft. Lots herbal influences. See, they call them potions.”

Eloise’s smile is brittle, her body thrumming with tension. I wonder if I should just call it a night—tell her she can take the room herself, and I’ll meet her extra early. My family would be happy to have me home. I feel like I’ve crossed a line, that I’ve stepped through a doorway into a dimension I can’t return from. Her faint citrusy scent fills my nose, her face so close to mine. I’m filled with the urge to tilt her chin up, to run my thumb over her lower lip.

She glances at me and her breath catches in her throat. “Do they have mezcal?” she squeaks.

I chuckle. “Si.”

34Eloise

I am freeeeeeeeaking out.

I wish I could text Rachel. But I also never ever want Rachel to know that I am currently tucked in a dark corner of a dimly lit bar, with one entire side of me touching one entire side of Agustín and ohmygodIamfreakingout.

My heart has sprouted a thousand wings, and they are fluttering and flapping in a way that feels like a panic attack except I can breathe. I can think.

I want to kiss him. So badly. I worry if I look at him too much, I’ll just stare at his mouth. His arm behind me is a solid unyielding force against my back, and the candlelight plays across his face, his dimples like shadows in the night. I’m buzzing, humming, vibrating. I’m a thesaurus of feelings.

He orders us drinks, and I think maybe also French fries? I’m still pretty full from our feast earlier but I want something to do with my hands. And mouth. I need to distract myself from these urges but they’re everywhere.

I’m aching to kiss him. I’ve never ached to kiss anyone before.

Rachel hasn’t said anything about the room yet, and I don’t want to bother her, but how am I supposed to sleep next to a man I want to kiss this badly? I keep clenching my jaw like I can physically swallow the desire. Like I can wrestle it into a box, because Agustín is not supposed to be anything more than my plus-one. He’s just a date to a wedding so my best friend doesn’t get cursed, so how did we get here?

Oh my god, what am I even thinking, it’s not we. It’s me. I’m the one here, with all the twisting, writhing thesaurus-feelings. He’s probably wondering why I haven’t moved a muscle since we sat down.

The truth is this has been one of the best days of my life. Despite the flight. And the newness. And the impending wedding. I’ve had so much fun today. Even away from the Pack and my apartment and New York. And I know it’s because of him. Because I trust him.

Because I’m falling for him.

No. I have to reject that thought. Thank god, the waitress comes back with our drinks because I’m sure this silence is getting uncomfortable. He must notice it, right? Is it just me? Ugh, why can’t this squirming coil in my stomach just knock it off?

As soon as the waitress leaves, I grab my drink—which is honestly incredibly cool, with smoke coming off it and a purple flower floating on top of hazy apricot-colored liquid—and take a ginormous gulp. Instantly, my mouth is full of the perfect combination of fruit, smoke, and citrus. I swallow and cough.

“Wow,” I say, as the mezcal burns through my chest, relaxing me. I take another drink, less aggro and more savoring this time. “Wow,” I say again.

“It’s good, right?”

His face is so close to mine, his breath tickles my ear.

You can do this, Eloise. Turn your head and look at him. Don’t make it weird.

I take a measured inhale, and one more fortifying sip of my drink.

I turn to him, and he’s got his own tumbler in one hand, long, tan fingers curved around a glass of amber liquid with a desiccated orange slice nestled against a single large cube of ice. He’s gazing at me from beneath those dark, expressive brows, his eyes utterly focused. When he looks at me like that, I feel like I’m the only thing that matters, the only thing that exists in his universe. It steals all the air from my lungs, making my throat catch. My heart pounds against my sternum. He’s mere inches away from me.

The moment elongates, stretching out, thick and sweet, like molasses. My eyes dart to his mouth—I can’t help myself. I feel a tremor run through me. His lips are slightly parted, almost as if in surprise. Slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare me, he puts down his drink. Even more slowly, he lifts his hand to my face. The moment his palm touches my cheek, a flash of heat runs over my body, like he’s lit a flame across my skin. His touch is achingly gentle. His thumb whispers over my cheekbone, and I feel something inside me begin to unravel. There’s a pulsing throb between my legs and the air between us shimmers.

He tilts my head ever so slightly.

Yes.

I don’t know if I whisper the word aloud or only think it in my mind. But Agustín knows. He’s always been able to read me. He crosses the tiny space between us and brushes his lips against mine.

Electricity flickers. Stars explode. The heavens open.

His lips are soft and tender and I feel a give inside me as he kisses me. Gently. Serenely. But with an undercurrent of passion, like he’s keeping himself in control. Like he doesn’t want to scare me.

And I realize I am not scared.