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“I see.” He grins, pulling my gaze right back down again.
I squirm nervously, grateful when the bartender reappears, setting our two drinks on the bar.
He takes his, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. It takes me a moment to realize he’s waiting for me to grab mine. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I reach for the glass, wrapping my hands around the slender design.
“Cheers.” He taps his glass against mine before emptying the entire contents in one big gulp, whereas I take a small sip. He watches me intently, and for some reason I feel obligated to take another drink, this one much larger than the first.
“Happy?” I ask, setting the drink back on top of the bar.
He leans in close, the smell of his cologne overwhelming my senses. When I feel his breath on the side of my face, I swear every inch of my skin prickles.
“It takes a lot more than that to make me happy,” he rumbles in my ear. “But it’s a start.” His English is impeccable, though I’m fairly certain it’s not his first language.
My heart kicks up speed and even though I feel like I should say something, I can’t manage to get anything out past the lump lodged in my throat.
“So, tell me,” he pulls back, a smirk tugging at his lips when he catches my expression, “if you don’t dance and you don’t drink, what are you doing here?”
“It’s my friend’s birthday,” I croak, gesturing toward the dance floor. “And how do you know I don’t dance?” I demand, finally finding my voice. The look he gives me sends a chill spiraling up my spine.
Has he been watching me?
I’m not sure if the thought excites me or scares me. Maybe a bit of both.
On one hand, who wouldn’t want a guy that looks like this taking the time to notice them? On the other, there’s something dark about him. Something dangerous. I don’t know why I think that, other than I can feel it in my gut.
“I’m Mateo,” he offers rather than answering the question.
“Mila.” I swallow hard.
“Well,Mila, it’s nice to meet you.” There’s something strange about the way he says my name.
“Um, yeah, you too.”
My nerves have me reaching for my glass again. I suck down a good portion of the drink in one long pull, needing something to take the edge off. He watches me closely and I notice that my actions seem to please him. And because I like the way that makes me feel, for reasons I don’t fully understand, I go in for another drink.
“So, what brings you here?” I stupidly ask.
“You.”
I’m taken aback by his answer but he’s likely just messing with me. There’s no way he came here for me, given we only just met.
“Where are you from?” I ask, setting my now almost empty glass back on the bar.
“Why do you ask?”
“Your accent. I can’t place it.”
“Where are you from?” he asks, not answering my question.
“Here.” I shrug. “Born and raised.”
“Really?” The look on his face suggests he doesn’t believe me, which strikes me as odd.
“Why, do I not look like I’m from here?”
“Yes and no.”
I’m about to ask him what that means when a sudden flush of heat floods my face and I get that weird swirling sensation you sometimes get when you stand up too fast. I try to shake it off, taking a deep breath, but the feeling only intensifies.
