“Is that so?”

“What were you saying?” I prodded, hoping he wouldn’t pry.

“I was saying I was hoping to ask you tonight.”

“Why tonight?”

“Because you would be drunk.”

My heart thudded in my chest. What did that mean?

I took in a careful breath. “How come you can’t ask me when I’m sober?”

He shrugged but his finger was still on mine, trapping me. “People speak the truth when they are drunk. More or less.”

“Well,” I said bravely. “Then ask me tonight when I am drunk.”

“I will.”

We didn’t say anything for a few moments. All I kept thinking about what he was going to ask me, why did he need me to be drunk and truthful? My mind started going fast, the hamster wheel spinning, as my heart sprinkled it with hope. Was he going to ask me to have an affair with him?

No. No, it was such a long shot. Despite what Claudia said, he didn’t see me as his favorite food and even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t take a bite.

Oh, god I hoped he wouldn’t because I didn’t think I’d be able to resist.

And then what?

Suddenly it felt like I choked up with fear, like it reached a hand in and took a good hold of my chest. I couldn’t go to the party tonight. I couldn’t be put in those circumstances. I didn’t trust myself this time, I didn’t trust that I wouldn’t do something that I would regret and I didn’t trust that I wouldn’t get hurt.

If the heart had no regard for time, mine wouldn’t have any for pain.

“Tell me about the stars, Estrella,” he said abruptly, clearing his throat, clearing my panicked thoughts from my head.

I stared up at the sky, at the sun that was trying to push through the clouds, clouds that pressed down the oppressive heat like an angry fist. “Uh, you can’t see the stars right now.”

“But let us pretend you can,” he said. “I know you are very good at pretending.”

I frowned and rolled my head to the side to look at him. He was facing the sky, his aviator shades on his eyes, the clouds reflected in them. I loved the slight bump on the bridge of his nose, like he’d gotten it head-butting someone in soccer. He probably did.

I watched him carefully for a moment before I told him constellations we’d see later that night, if it were clear.

“We saw those the other night,” he said. “I want to hear their stories. Tell me a story about the constellation Leo, the lion.”

“You mean the story with Hercules, or…”

“No,” he said. “Something you’ve made up.”

“Pretty sure the Hercules story was made up.”

“Play along now, Vera,” he said, his voice so silky smooth. “For me.”

I sighed and blew a strand of hair off my sticky face. “Fine.” And then I proceeded to make up some story about Leo, which ended up being eerily similar to the Disney classic, Lambert the Sheepish Lion.

When I was finished the story, I looked over at him for his reaction. He was sleeping soundly, his chest rising and falling.

Did Mateo just use me as sleep-aid? Why did I find that somewhat endearing?

I smiled to myself and did the creepy stalker thing where I continued to watch him sleep, allowed to stare unabashedly at his beautiful, temporarily innocent face until he began to stir.

The siesta was over.

I tried not to go to the flamenco party, I really did. In fact, straight after dinner, I ran back to the apartment, took a shower and put my pajamas on, ready for a night in. I did not want to have my resolve tested. Even if Mateo was going to ask me something funny and completely innocent, it didn’t matter. At this point in our relationship, I did not trust myself around him when I was drunk and it made me really nervous to even talk to him with everyone watching. For the last four or five days, ever since Claudia told me that she assumed I was sleeping with him, I felt everyone’s eyes always on me, always judging. I knew this probably wasn’t true—aside from Lauren—but even so, a party seemed too risky.

Lauren’s words kept ringing in my head too, telling me his wife would find out. What happened when there was something to find out? I didn’t know Isabel Casalles at all, especially since Mateo didn’t seem to like to talk about her, but no woman wants to do that to another. No one wants someone to commit adultery.

I’d just settled down in my bed with my Kindle, still a bit buzzed from the wine at dinner, and ready to read the urban fantasy I’d been sucked into, when there was a knock at the front door. I ignored it but it persisted and finally I heard the knock at my door.

I really needed to start locking the apartment.

“What?” I yelled, not bothering to cover up my annoyance. When there was no response I went over to the door and opened it enough to stick my head out.

Claudia, Ricardo, Sammy, Becca and Dave were all huddled outside my door with devious smiles on their faces.

“The hell?” I said, now conscious of Dave’s eyes roaming over the slice of booty-short topped leg that was visible to everyone.

“What are you doing?”

“Get dressed!”

“Come to the party!”

“You can’t hide forever.”

I was suddenly bombarded by their drunken voices. Man, they must have gotten a head start.

“Guys!” I yelled, trying to shut them up. “I’m in my pajamas, can’t you see?”

“I can see that very well,” Dave commented with a lecherous smirk.

I glared at him. “Shut up.”

“Please Vera,” Sammy said. “You’re the life of the party.”

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m reading a really good book. And it’s really hot out,” I added feebly.

“And the beer is cold,” Claudia said, “and we are better company than a book.”

I gave them all a wary look. “I don’t know about that.”

“Come now, you twat,” Sammy said, waving at me. Tonight she looked like a tiny round blueberry: Blue camisole, short blue skirt and blue suede platform pumps. Jeez, she must have packed more shoes than I did. She plopped herself down on the couch and patted the seat. “Oy, everyone else sit your arse here. If Vera won’t come to the party, we’ll bring the party to Vera.”

And that’s pretty much how that started. I relented and slipped on a pair of drawstring lounge pants, though didn’t bother with a bra. Sure my tank top was pink and thin and you could see my headlights through it, but they were just girls. And Dave. Dave with his smarmy smirk and tattoos, who I’m pretty sure he’d at least gotten a feel of them the last time we were together. I wondered, briefly, whom he was fucking here.

Pretty soon the wine was flowing, the beers were being opened and the firewater we called grappa kept being passed around. Jerry had been giving Dave and a few others a ride into Acantilado over the weeks so they could stock up on supplies and alcohol. I should have felt bad for mooching, but hey, they were offering.

While Sammy and Dave had battle over what music would play on the iPod (Lana Del Rey VS The Clash), Becca, Claudia, Ricardo and I all sat on the floor playing the drinking game “Kings” with a deck of cards. I felt like I was in college—which was funny, because I was in college. It’s just that I didn’t have that many friends there and never got invited to anything on the UBC campus. Being around this group made me realize I might have been missing out.

When we were sufficiently drunk enough, and The Clash had won out as the music on accounts of Lana’s music being too much of a bummer, we start dancing, just bopping all over the apartment.

And then the party grew. At first it was just Sara coming home with Nerea and Manuel in tow, wanting to celebrate after their flamenco performance. We quickly convinced them to join us, even though I was bare-faced and in my pajamas. Then Claudia texted Eduardo, who came over with Polly and Jorge, then Antonio, Wayne, Angel and Mateo showed up.

Yep. Mateo.

I don’t know why I thought my apartment was some impenetrable little fortress against the powers of the Spaniard but clearly I was an ill-prepared idiot. The minute I saw him walk in the door, back in his white linen shirt and black dress pants, the heat of the night glistening on his arms and collarbone, I knew it was game over. I was drunk and improperly dressed, he was here, and there was a damn good chance that I was in love with the man.