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“What if I don’t want to go anymore?”
“If you don’t want to, then we won’t go.” I shrug. “We can order takeout and binge watch TV until we pass out.”
His lip twitches. “After you spent all that time getting ready, you’d be okay skipping out?”
“Absolutely. I’ll count us even as long as you take a picture of me for my social media page. I’ve never dressed up like this before, so pics or it didn’t happen.” I grin.
“Never? What about prom?”
I shrink back and stare at my hands. “Oh, I couldn’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Because my foster mom didn’t have the money to buy a dress. It wasn’t common for kids like us to go to those kinds of things anyway. But it’s fine because I didn’t plan on winning prom queen or anything.”
Wrinkles mar his forehead as he frowns. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like it doesn’t bother you. It bothers the fuck out of me, and it wasn’t even my prom.”
“What do you expect me to do? Get mad?”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Well, I can’t turn back the clock, and I don’t want to.” The last thing I want to do is relive those years of my life.
“You’re right. For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to turn back the clock, either.” He looks up from his hands, hitting me with a stare filled with mixed emotions.
“Why?”
“Because you make me want to live in the present rather than kill myself by focusing on the past.”
My chest tightens to a point of discomfort. There’s nothing in the world that can prepare me for having real feelings toward Santiago Alatorre. Feelings are dangerous, and I want to push them away. Very few people in my life have elicited any positive ones. And developing any kind with him gives him an opportunity to break me in ways I’ve never allowed anyone to do before.
I don’t have time to evaluate how I feel toward him. It’s messy and convoluted because of our fine line between fake and real. And it doesn’t help when he says things that muddle my brain.
I didn’t come to Italy to fall in love. And I most definitely didn’t come to Italy to have my heart broken. But with all the time I’m spending around Santiago, I’m not sure if the two are mutually exclusive anymore.
The first camera bulb blinds me. I blink away the black spots in my vision, only to be set off by another flashing light. “How does anyone walk the red carpet if they can’t see?” I clutch onto Santiago’s arm, my fingers digging into the material of his tux.
Somehow my game-day prep speech worked on him while my confidence disappears by the minute. He struts the carpet like he was meant for this life while I struggle to keep up, my attention diverted by reporters yelling out questions.
“I’d say you could get used to it, but I hope we don’t have to attend another one of these for a very long time.”
My feet grind to a halt at his words. “W
e?”
His eyes land on everything besides my face. “We. Me. Slip of the tongue.”
Right. I scrunch my nose.
A reporter calls out Santiago’s name. He grumbles something under his breath as he leads us toward the red velvet rope. “Let’s get this one over with and then we can drink until the world blurs.”
I laugh as I follow him.
“Santiago Alatorre! What a pleasure it is to have you here at Monza with us!” The reporter beams at my date.
