Javier has something that most American men don’t—rhythm. He can dance, and he’s good at it. I never understood the aversion American boys have to dancing. I love Argentine tango.
After four years of doing this, we dance close-embrace. Javier’s T-shirt is level with my eyes, and I notice some small paint stains. On him, they look distinguished, not dirty. After two more songs, we head back to the table—Javier walking, me waddling.
“Javier, you need to teach me how to tango,” Reagan demands as soon as we sit down. She looks blurry around the edges. “Isa is a horrible teacher. I end up leading her.”
Javier laughs, and they’re off planning while I tackle a mojito. I chug it, almost inhaling the crushed ice at the bottom.
A clearing of the throat distracts me from my assault on ice. Bloody hell, I know that sound. I blink through the haze and there he is in all his glory. My Mr. Hale. Tall, absurdly beautiful and pinning me with his sapphire gaze. I think my mouth is closed but I could be wrong.
“Elisa.” He nods—a quizzical note in his voice.
“Hello, Mr. Hale.” Ugh! My words sounded like a garbled sigh, whether from the sight of him or the drinks I’ve quaffed, I don’t know.
“What are you doing out in this weather?” He speaks slowly, as though he is addressing someone who is mentally challenged.
“Technically, we’re not out,” I argue and laugh. That last mojito suddenly doesn’t seem like such a good idea. “Oops! Sorry, you meant not at home. Well, we came here to get drunk. Ethanol-induced neurotransmitter excitation.”
“I see.” His voice becomes clipped, and his eyes sweep over Reagan and Javier. A flash of anger strikes in their depths as though he holds the two of them responsible for this poor decision—or for the rainstorm. Some still-sober neurons remember table manners, and I introduce them. Reagan is regaled with a formal nice-to-meet-you, but Javier only gets a curt nod.
“How are you getting home?” Hale asks, strangely looking at Javier.
“I’m driving.” Reagan raises her hand. “I’ve only had one mojito and my car is right outside.”
Hale looks like he does not like that plan at all. A deafening clap of thunder chooses this moment to boom. Hale’s jaw clenches, and his right hand curls into a tight fist.
“Sir, the Tokyo clan has arrived,” a familiar deep voice says quietly. Only now, I notice Shaq’s twin a few feet to the right of Hale. Despite his formidable size, he has the kindest brown eyes I have seen on a stranger. “They’re waiting in your private room.”
“Thank you, Benson,” Hale answers, fixing his eyes on me. They lighten as always, and his fist relaxes. “Are you all right?” he asks in a husky voice, as though we are all alone.
Perhaps it’s that tone or his probing intense eyes but his question cuts through the alcohol daze and in this moment, I want to be. I want to be a normal American girl, with parents, a blue passport and a bubbly giggle who can answer his question with a true yes.
“There are about seventeen answers to that question in a dichotomous key, Mr. Hale,” I answer, forcing a smile.
He holds my gaze for a moment, and I stare back. How did all my euphoria disappear so completely? Suddenly, I don’t want him to see this part of me.
“Good night, Mr. Hale,” I tell him, my tone more abrupt than I intended.
His jaw ticks once and he turns his sniper eyes on Javier and Reagan. He glares at them with what can only be described as dragon wrath.
“Good evening to you all.” He nods formally and makes to leave, but then pauses.
“Be safe,” he says to me, with those same intense eyes. Benson steps to the side moments before Hale turns like he already anticipated the movement. I stare at Hale’s broad shoulders and narrow hips as he climbs the stairs to the private dining rooms. Then I chug Javier’s mojito and Reagan’s leftover sangria and start chewing on ice.
Chapter Twelve
The First Goodbye
I wake up Sunday morning, feeling like Johnny Cash, with no way to hold my head up that doesn’t hurt. According to Reagan and Johnny, a beer for breakfast helps. Who am I to question them? I go to the fridge to get one of Reagan’s loyal Coronas. I sip it from the bottle at our kitchen table, mortified when I think about last night. Who knows what Mr. Hale thinks of me now? I have no doubt I disappointed him, slurring, barely vertical and with more moods than Sybil.
The real question is, why do I care so much? I have no business having such strong reactions to a man I barely know, in a land where I barely exist. I need to do something about this. Maybe break my femur so that the painting never happens. Femurs take thirty days to heal, for sure.
Reagan comes to the kitchen in her workout clothes—Union Jack shorts, a pink sweatshirt and sneakers, which she insists on calling jumper and trainers. “Hey, lushie. How are you feeling?” She laughs. The sound makes my head throb.
“Very sorry.”