by Emerson Rose
“Sir?” A voice comes from the edge of the dance floor.
“Yes, Sebastián, now is fine.” King responds without looking in the direction of the disembodied voice. A waiter and a waitress dressed in black pants and stiff white shirts appear on either side of us, seemingly from out of nowhere. The waiter gracefully slides two plates onto the table in front of us while the waitress pops the cork from a bottle of champagne and pours it into tall flutes. Before I can say thank you, they vanish as suddenly as they arrived. I examine the food on my plate and lay my hand over my tummy when it growls impatiently. I don’t recognize some of the food, so I look to King, who is watching me.
“Hungry?”
“Very.”
“Do you need me to tell you what we’re eating?” I shake my head yes, and he points at the main dish. “Jumbo deep sea scallops encrusted in pumpkin seed,” he says, checking my expression before he proceeds to the next item. “Chayote with calabacitas with chipotle peppercorn sauce. It’s not ‘American’ food. I’m sorry. I wanted to share some of my favorites. I assumed you would like Mexican food. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
I do love Mexican. I mean, growing up in Texas, it’s pretty much mandatory, but these aren’t your average Mexican tacos or burritos.
“No, no, I love Mexican food. I just haven’t had these particular things before. It looks great, and honestly, I would eat just about anything right now.”
Relief spreads across his face again, and I wonder why he’s trying so hard. Why does he care so much if the food is to my liking or if the mood is set perfectly? We hardly know each other.
“You’re sure? I can have something else prepared in seconds if you’d like.”
“No. Please, King, this is perfect, all of this,” I say, looking around the room and back to him. “The table, the room, the music, the food . . . but most of all, you, King,” I say, reaching out to cover his hand with mine on the armrest of his chair.
The same jolt I felt earlier passes between us, flooding my body with that strange combination of electricity and contentment. I’m reminded of the comment he made earlier, and I decide to ask what he meant by it.
“What did you mean when you said ‘You make things different’?” I ask and watch as he seems to search for the right words to explain.
“I’m not exactly sure. You just make me feel . . . different somehow.” His eyes narrow and his brow furrows softly as he regards me carefully for a heartbeat. “Now eat before you pass out on the floor and suffocate in a sea of orchid petals,” he says, removing my hand from his and placing it over my fork. Something about that answer stirs suspicion as well as guilt. It’s as if he wanted to elaborate but he stopped himself; that’s the suspicion. The guilt I feel stems from the secret I’m keeping. I hadn’t considered telling him how old I was before, but the further the day goes on, the more important it seems.
The food is out of this world delicious, but it’s spicy. I try to keep my cool for a few bites, but finally I surrender and down another glass of water. With one hand splayed on the table and teary eyes, I look at King over the rim of my glass and see him biting his lip and holding back a laugh. When I’ve drained the glass, I set it down hard and gasp.
“You knew this was hot.”
“Ah, yes. I guess I did,” he says sheepishly, gritting his teeth and bowing his head to look at me through his thick dark eyelashes. “I’m sorry. Really, I think they actually made it a little spicier than usual. Here, have some champagne. I’ll have Sebastián get you more water.” He lifts his hand, motioning to someone in the shadows around the dance floor. Right away, my glass is filled and a pitcher of water is placed on the table between us. I’ve already downed my champagne in a very un-ladylike manner when I start in on my second—or is it my third—glass of water.
He isn’t holding back now. His chuckling has turned into a full-fledged laugh, and I start to giggle along with him. He’s taken an extra drink of water as well, so I know it’s not just me feeling the heat of the spicy food.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I think I will be now,” I say, coughing while I watch him refill my champagne flute.
“I promise something more traditional next time.”
“Traditional? As in less Mexican or less hot?” I ask.
“Less hot, never less Mexican.” He smiles, and I wonder if he was born in Mexico.
“Are you from Mexico originally?”
“No, Puerto Rico. My father moved us to Texas when I was fifteen,” he says, pushing his food around on his plate.
“Really? I’ve never been to Puerto Rico, but my daddy took us to Mexico on vacation once.” I too push my food around on my plate, unsure if I want to risk another bite. I expect King to elaborate on growing up in Puerto Rico, but he’s grown unusually quiet and withdrawn. A strange unease hangs in the air between us, so I decide to veer the topic of discussion in a different direction.
“What sparked your interest in classical music?” I ask, tentatively taking another bite of shrimp. His face brightens as his eyes find mine again. Smart move. He loves music, it seems—almost as much as I do.
“I was five, and my mother bought a piano. No one knew how to play, but she encouraged me to learn. She always wanted me to do the things she wasn’t able to when she was a child. I started lessons and caught on immediately. My mother wanted me to try other instruments, but my father said I should focus on one thing and be great at it, so of course I did as he wished.
I listened to classical music when the other kids in school were listening to Rap and Pop. My dad regretted encouraging me to play the piano when he decided I should be involved in team sports, but I didn’t enjoy being part of a group. I was more interested in running, swimming, playing the piano . . . things that I could do on my own. Anyway, to answer your question, my mother instigated my love of classical music.”
“You don’t seem like the loner type to me, what with owning and running dance clubs for a living.” I can almost taste his disquiet.
“I got over it. My father made sure of it.” His tone is bitter, and I’m picking up that their relationship was less than ideal.
“I’d love to hear you play sometime.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
Someone is approaching from behind. I can hear the shuffle of flower petals as they near the table. King looks up, initially irritated, but quickly his expression changes to concern. Sebastián bends to quietly say something in King’s ear on the opposite side of me, so I can’t make out what he’s saying.
“Fuck. Tell her I’m busy,” he snaps, but Sebastián raises his brows as if to say Yeah, right and turns to leave us alone again.
“I’m sorry, Holland. I’ll be right back. I have to deal with some . . .” he begins to explain, but before he can get the words out, he’s cut off by the screech of a woman’s voice.
“What the hell is all of this?” She shrieks, and I turn to see a familiar very tall, very angry woman standing ankle deep in orchid petals with her hands outstretched. It’s the woman from the pictures on the internet—the one in the red dress.
“And who the fuck is this?” She screams in an even higher pitch.
“Crystal, what the hell are you doing here?” King yells, and I jump an inch off of my seat. His eyes swing back to me when he realizes he’s startled me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, reaching out to touch my arm. “I’ll be right back.” He pushes out his chair and bends to kiss me softly on my mouth. I squirm when the angry woman gasps.
“It’s okay. Just a misunderstanding, I promise,” he whispers, but not quietly enough.
“A misunderstanding. So I’m just a misunderstanding? What the fuck, King?” she screams, and King closes the distance between them in three long strides.
“Shut your fucking mouth, Crystal,” he hisses, taking her arm roughly and leading her toward the front entrance. She stumbles and complains all the way until they pass th
rough the doors, leaving me alone and confused. Is this Crystal his girlfriend? Is he cheating on her with me? Am I the other woman? The questions begin to pile up, and I don’t understand how I could have gotten mixed up in such a mess.
After a few minutes alone, my mind settles and I hear soft music wafting through the high-powered sound system. Chopin . . . now that is something I understand, unlike the hysteria of the surprised woman who was just dragged from the room. Chopin is soothing and relaxing. It makes sense. I close my eyes and lean my head back on the chair, trying to not figure out what just happened here. As always, I’m instantly transported far away from the insanity of being a nineteen-year-old girl sneaking away from home to have dinner with an unsuspecting older man, who is now in the lobby with his very pissed off girlfriend. I relax and loosen my grip on the arms of the chair while I loll my head to the adagio tempo. It’s beautiful here in the calm of my private musical world. I used to think there was no place I’d rather be, until I met King . . .
Muffled angry voices pull me from my reverie, and I open my eyes to see King leaning on a column, with one hand in his pocket, staring at me as if I were the most fascinating thing in the world.
“You’re so fucking amazing,” he says, pushing off the column to make his way to the table.
“Who was that?” I say, nodding my head toward the doors where the angry woman is still vehemently arguing with someone.
“A mistake,” he answers simply.
“How so?”
“Her name is Crystal. I met her a little over a year ago. She’s always interpreted our friendship differently than I do.”
“As in she thinks you’re a couple and you don’t?” I ask.
“Yes, essentially,” he says as he arrives at the table, reaching for my hand. “Dance with me?” I place my hand in his, and he gently pulls me to my feet. The little bit of alcohol in my body begins to circulate, and I remember my vow to never drink again. How on earth did I ever forget that? Being with King seems to vaporize all of my common sense. There is no wrong or right, just here and now—never no, always yes.
King’s arms circle me. One hand rests just below the small of my back, the other behind my neck. He softly pulls me against his chest and nuzzles his nose into my hair, inhaling deeply.
“You’re amazing.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, not fishing for further compliments but genuinely curious as to why he thinks I’m amazing.
He moves his face away from my hair and slides his hand from behind my neck, slowly along my shoulder, and down my arm until our palms are pressing together.
“We are having a magical date. My ex walks in, screaming hysterically, and you close your eyes and lose yourself in Chopin. That’s amazing.” Our eyes are focused on our hands as he lifts them to lace his fingers with mine.
“You chose Chopin . . . it’s irresistible,” I say, looking into his quizzical eyes.
“I don’t know if I should be insulted by your lack of concern about my ex or in awe of your capability to compartmentalize.”
I smile and lean into the warm heat of his body.
“Be in awe, but tell me about Crystal.”
“That’s very diplomatic of you, Ms. Bennett.”
“Well, I don’t want you to think I’m not curious or worried, because I’d be lying if I said I weren’t, but I am good at keeping things separated. Music would consume me if I couldn’t. It would swallow me up, and I’d never experience anything else.”
“There’s no need to be worried. You can rest assured of that. Like I said, she’s nothing to me.”
For some reason, hearing him say that makes me sad. It’s obvious that King is something to her—how could he not be? I could easily be Crystal in a week or two. I’m not sure I would be handling the sight of him having a romantic dinner with another woman any better than she just did.
“What’s the matter? You’re tense,” he says, rubbing his hand in small circles on my back.
“How long did you say you two were together?”
King sighs. “We were never really together. We slept together, and she went with me to formal functions, but it wasn’t an actual relationship—for me, anyway.”
“It seems like it was for her. She’s pretty upset. And you didn’t really answer my question.”
“Holland, I don’t want to waste time thinking about Crystal, but if it makes you feel better, I met her over a year ago at a club opening. We went to a few functions and had dinner once in a while. She always wanted more, but I didn’t feel the same way. Are we good now?”
“Sure.”
“Good,” he says, smiling mischievously, and he suddenly twirls me away from his body when the tempo of the music speeds up. I’ve never danced this way before, but King makes it effortless, moving me around the floor.
Being with King is easy and natural. It’s amazing how well we relate to each other, considering we have a six-year age gap. I giggle as he over-exaggerates a couple of dance moves, acting silly. When the music fades, he leads me back to the table, where our dinner plates have been replaced by small saucers. He pulls out my chair while I sit and catch my breath.
“What’s this?” I ask, looking at the round, white disk. I assume its dessert, because it’s being served after dinner, but I’ve never seen anything like it before.
“It’s cracked meringue filled with a white mousse. I hope it goes over better than our entrée.”
“It looks . . . interesting.” As long as it doesn’t set my mouth on fire, I’m good.
“It’s very good. I promise there’s nothing hot in this one.”
One bite and I’m hooked. This is the most delicious dessert I’ve ever tasted. It’s light and tangy, with just the perfect amount of sweet. I close my eyes and moan in appreciation.
When I open them, King is watching me with his elbow resting on the arm of his chair as he strokes his five o’clock shadow.
“How old are you?” he asks, and the hand holding my fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Shit. Is this just another getting to know you question, like asking about my favorite color, or does he suspect something? I don’t want to lie to him, but I certainly can’t tell him the truth, or he’d be hauling me home to my parents in a hot second, never to think of me again.
“Why?” I say, bringing the fork full of meringue to my mouth, hoping to stall him for a minute.
“I don’t know . . . you seem to have an old soul,” he answers thoughtfully.
I chew much longer than is necessary, as the dessert requires no chewing at all, and finally decide to be vague.
“So my soul looks old, huh?”
“That’s not a bad thing, you know. Just an observation.”
“Well, a lady doesn’t reveal her age on the first date,” I say, batting my eyelashes playfully.
“Touché.”
Hopefully, he’s going to leave the age thing alone. God, please let him leave the age thing alone.
“Eat. You barely had dinner. At least fill up on dessert,” he says, jutting his chin toward my plate.
“Deal,” I say and take another bite of the heavenly dessert while I relax. I can’t believe I averted the age issue . . . for now, anyway.
The club is quiet. The music has stopped, and I miss it.
“What happened to the music?”
“Oh yes, I almost forgot,” he says, reaching behind the flower arrangement on the table for a large tablet. Where the heck did that thing come from?
“I wanted to let you choose what we listen to next,” he says, handing me an enormous remote of sorts with a list of thousands of songs to choose from. They’re all broken into genres, but I immediately know what I want. I shovel a bite into my mouth and set my fork down before taking the remote and tapping the button labeled Easy Listening. I scroll through the artists until I find Sinatra’s Let’s Fall in Love. My finger hovers over the play tab. Should I suggest such a thing? Being in love isn’t anything I’ve experienced before, but if I had to guess, t
he feelings I have for King are close. What the hell—it’s only for the summer. I tap play and hand the remote back to King, who raises his brows when he hears the first few bars of the song.
Chapter 8
King
I thought she would choose something classical. I never imagined her a Sinatra fan. With any other woman, this song choice would be a complete turn-off. Women who suggest foolish things like love and throw themselves at me come off as weak, but not Holland. Quite the opposite. In fact, using a song to suggest love is a strong, bold move—as well as unnecessary. I felt something strong for her the second I saw her dancing alone on this very dance floor. Romero men are known for falling in love at first sight. It used to sound ridiculous to me, but now? Maybe not.
“See? Old soul,” I say, putting her at ease. I saw her hesitate before choosing this song, but she went for it, and I love that about her.
“I guess so,” she says shyly, reaching for her champagne.
“Sinatra fan?” I say, leaning forward to slide my hand under the table and over her thigh. Her smooth skin makes me so hard, it’s all I can do not to take her right here on the table, or bent over it, or up against the wall, in my lap . . . fuck, how did this happen? King Tomas Romero is pussy whipped. She doesn’t know it yet, but she could have anything in the world that she wants right now. Anything—it’s hers, no questions, no qualms—including my heart. Never in my life have I wanted to give a woman the world on a silver platter, but with Holland the urge is staggering.
She places her fork on the edge of her plate and turns in her chair, making it easier for my hand to slip between her legs. The way she moves is so innocent. I know she didn’t do it on purpose, but it’s arousing all the same. Our eyes lock as Sinatra sings Now is the time for it, while we are young. Let’s fall in love. Her crystal clear grey eyes blink slowly as I move closer to cover her mouth with mine. A tiny moan vibrates in her throat when my tongue slides across her full bottom lip. I want so much to bite it, but I deny myself the satisfaction to spare her the mark it would leave. My fingers brush against her damp panties while my other hand gathers her hair, gently tugging it to expose her elegant neck. Kissing trails down her silky skin to her nape and back up, I nip at her earlobe.
