Page 13 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Catalina

The party is as full of people as I was expecting. Santi stayed glued to my side for most of the first hour, watching me drink and chat with some people while he sipped on his water and kept his hand casually placed on my hip.

It didn’t even irritate me as much as I wish it had, which is why I used the first chance of him getting distracted by an acquaintance to leave and move around the room on my own.

And that’s when I spotted one of my favorite people in the world and the host of this party.

Matteo Ricci.

We met several years ago on the tennis court when we were paired up to play doubles for a charity event and have spent countless evenings together since.

I’m not as close to him as I am to Sage, Ness, and Charlie, but spending time with him brightens up my days.

He’s fun, easy-going, and always finds ways to make me laugh.

After my conversation with Santi in the car, I really don’t feel like doing anything other than glaring at every single person around me, but Matteo doesn’t give me that choice.

“Catalina Sanchez, you are far more beautiful than anyone has a right to be,” he says as he approaches me, placing two kisses on my cheeks.

“Will you dance with me, dolcezza ?” he asks, and I find myself blushing at the muscular Italian with deep brown eyes, dark brown skin, and short, curly hair.

The three glasses of champagne I’ve downed also have made me tipsy and my chest all warm.

“Absolutely,” I reply, placing my hand in his when he holds it out for me.

I’m well aware I should be spending all my time with Santiago, selling this fake relationship of ours, but we were already photographed together outside of the venue.

I think I get one minute to enjoy with someone I actually like, especially because Matteo vetted every single person here, making them sign something that said no video and photography is allowed.

Whatever happens at his parties will not be shared on the internet.

“Uh oh, Lina. Your boyfriend isn’t happy that I’m touching you,” Matteo says right after he grabs my hips to spin me around, his body behind mine as we keep dancing.

He tilts my chin in Santi’s direction so that I look at him, and when his usually happy mouth is downturned into the most irritated scowl, I bite my lip to keep him from seeing my smile.

“First of all, he isn’t my actual boyfriend. Secondly, good. Let him be pissed.” I spin back around in Matteo’s arms, swaying my hips to the music.

Matteo is a very attractive man, and when he touches my lower back, I get butterflies in my stomach.

He seems to notice because he’s smiling down at me knowingly, bringing his hand even lower.

I trust Matteo, I always have, so I don’t stop him when he looks at me for permission.

If anything, I sway my hips more, inviting his hand to brush against me.

Right before he slips it onto my ass, I feel someone grab Matteo’s wrist, and then I’m pulled against a very hard chest that’s vibrating with anger.

“Hi, Santiago,” Matteo says, a challenging sparkle in his eyes.

“Hi, Matteo,” he replies, the words making his chest brush against my back, and I realize he’s not even holding me against him anymore. I simply haven’t moved away. “Do you like your hands attached to your arms?” Santi asks next, making Matteo cock a brow.

“Sure do.” He’s finding this all awfully amusing, even as his best friend threatens him.

“Then keep them off Catalina.”

Santi’s words are followed by his hands grabbing my hips before he throws me over his shoulder, storming away from the dance floor with me draped across it.

“Santiago Javier Castillo, if you don’t put me down, I’m going to cut your dick off in your sleep,” I say, pushing myself off his back in an attempt to make him understand me better with our loud surroundings.

“Cata, my patience has run out. Don't test me,” he says, still carrying me away from the party.

“Or what?” I bite back.

“Wanna find out, carino ?”

The dangerous edge he put in his voice, a promise of things my body is very on board with, has me shutting up until we reach a private room.

It looks like the sort of place where people put their jackets, but there is nothing in here but a singular table and empty racks.

Santiago places my ass on the table, stepping away from me to run his hands through his hair.

I watch him trying to collect himself, crossing my legs and leaning back on my hands. He spins abruptly and stalks toward me, stopping a meter away from me. His chest is rising and falling so very quickly, and I can’t help but smile at the sight.

It may be the alcohol, but jealous Santi is incredibly sexy.

“You can't possibly be upset that someone else was touching me, Santi. We're not actually together,” I remind him, dangling my feet to appear bored.

“Of course I'm upset, Catalina. We have to uphold appearances. You can’t be seen with my best friend's hands all over your ass, grinding against you,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest to refrain from throwing his hands around in frustration like he usually does.

“If I can't fuck anyone else, you sure as shit can't either,” he blurts out, and I almost laugh.

No part of me intends to risk exposing our fake relationship by sleeping with someone else, but Santi doesn't have to know that.

“But it felt so good having Matteo’s hand on my body.” For someone who is the very embodiment of sunshine, Santi looks ready to kill someone.

“If you want another's hands on your body, you will have to ask for mine, mariquita . For the next however many months, if you want pleasure, you’ll have to use me to get it.”

Never mind having butterflies. I barely stop my entire body from shaking at the very thought of using Santi for pleasure .

I press my legs more firmly together, and he tracks the movement with his eyes.

He takes another step toward me, but I lift my heel to press against his chest and keep him back.

His eyes drop to where the sharp heel pushes against his stomach, a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

“If I want pleasure, Santi, I will fuck myself to get it. I don't need you,” I say and push off the table, attempting to walk out of the room when his fingers wrap around my wrist in a gentle but firm grip.

His eyes soften as he takes me in, but there is still a fire burning inside of him that he hasn't quite managed to extinguish.

A fire fueled by his desire for… me.

“It’s one thing to hate me for our past, Cata, and another to risk everything we could possibly build now because of it. I will earn your forgiveness, but I need you to work with me until I do.”

This time, I do laugh.

“Don't bother, Santi. Your apologies will be as meaningless to me as any other moment we spend together. If I have to, I'll stop dancing with other people, but I won't ask you to dance with me instead. This relationship isn't real, and I won't pretend it is.”

He releases me, and I walk out of the room, trying to ignore the stinging in my eyes.

There was a time when I thought I was falling in love with Santiago Castillo, but I was a child and he was my rival. There is no way that was what I was feeling.

And yet, no other reason is strong enough to explain the way my heart breaks a little every time I’m reminded I can’t trust him. Not again. Not after he broke my heart in a way it had never been broken before.

I've been running around, aimlessly searching for grapes for the last twenty minutes.

There are many Spanish traditions my family continues to do, even after my mother's passing. Eating twelve grapes when the clock strikes midnight, ringing in the new year, is one of them.

But there are no grapes anywhere.

Panic has my chest in a deathly grip, making it nearly impossible to breathe as I ask yet another waitress if there are any grapes in the kitchen. She gives me the same answer as all the others.

No.

A familiar wave of grief hits me until the tears return to my eyes. I got them under control after my confrontation with Santi half an hour ago, but they return tenfold now.

“Twelve grapes, mija . You have to eat twelve at midnight.”

The sound of my mother's voice fills my ears, making tears drop down my cheeks. I cover my mouth, feeling a sense of hopelessness.

“Cata, take a deep breath for me.”

I don't want his voice to soothe me. It's not fair that I feel less overwhelmed simply because he appears in front of me, grabbing my arms to steady me.

I hate that his love language is physical touch. I hate it because it feels so good to be touched and comforted by him, by his strong grip.

“Tell me what’s wrong, and I will fix it. I promise.” When he said it earlier, I wanted to punch him in the face. Now? I kind of want to hug him.

It’s easy to get lost in my grief. It’s easy to forget I’m not alone when I feel this way, stuck in darkness. Having Santi here, steadying me is everything I need to feel tethered to reality again.

“Santi, I don’t have grapes. My mother said I always have to eat grapes,” I explain, taking a deep breath to slow my breathing. He runs a gentle hand over my arm, staring directly into my eyes.

“I brought grapes, carino . I remember your tradition, and I didn’t know if they would have some here, so I brought them.

Come with me,” he says, taking my hand to lead me to where he had given his bag to be checked earlier.

The man behind the counter takes Santi’s ticket before disappearing to grab his black backpack.

As soon as it’s in Santi’s hand, he guides me to the terrace of the venue, sitting down with me at one of the empty tables right as someone shouts that it’s one minute to midnight.

“Here,” he says, handing me green grapes—because I don’t like red ones—that he packed in a tupperware.

I stare at the container, dumbfounded, then at him.

“Santiago—” I start but cut off because I’m not entirely sure what to say.

“Come on, mariquita . Open them so we can eat them.”

Someone starts counting down from ten seconds to midnight, and I keep my eyes on Santiago’s the entire time as we count aloud with everyone else.

The clock strikes twelve, both of us saying “Happy New Year.”

Never in a million years did I think I’d ever share such a personal tradition with Santi, but as we eat the grapes in silence, him counting out loud to make sure we don’t miss one, I let my shoulders untense for the first time in years.

I don’t have to be on edge right now. He has no intention to have another fight, and I’m too relieved to yell at him when he made sure I didn’t have to feel disconnected from Mamá tonight.

“Thank you, Santi,” I hear myself saying once we’ve eaten the grapes. He reaches out to wipe under the left corner of my mouth, probably cleaning up my lipstick.

“You’re welcome, Cata.”

I hate my heart for stumbling because of the way he looks at me, because of the soft touch of his thumb on my face.

If this is how we start the new year, we might be able to make it to the end of the season without killing each other, after all.

Or, more accurately, me killing him.