Page 8 of Party of Three (Sapphire Cove Suite Secrets)
Jeff Braxton was a man who liked to come prepared.
Nothing had prepared him for Buckley Mitchell, not even the intel collection he’d done before deciding to accept the invite.
In the photos he’d found, Mateo’s boyfriend looked like a precious cupid—baby cheeks, curly blond hair, and big blue eyes that radiated innocence.
He’d expected beatific smiles and batting eyelashes as a result—a submissive pretty boy who could make Mateo happy in ways Jeff couldn’t, a fact that twisted Jeff’s heart into knots he didn’t want the world to see.
Man up, he’d told himself. Say good-bye before you lose Mateo forever.
But the Japan lie had caught him so off guard, egress seemed like the best possible response.
He’d been lured there under false pretenses, most likely so Buckley could mark his territory in some embarrassing way.
On his way to the motor court, he’d even checked the lobby ceiling for the stray bucket of pig’s blood.
He’d never expected Mr. Mitchell to come charging after him like an aggressive thoroughbred slipping the bullpen.
And those eyes. Those eyes had still blazed even after he’d been confronted with his deception.
Most people hated eye contact, so Jeff always used it to disarm aggressive opponents. Buckley hadn’t blinked.
And calling someone a dick not three minutes after you’d met them? He wasn’t sure he’d call that spine , but it sure as hell took nerve.
Now, as he found himself swept inside the resort’s sparkling marble lobby, Jeff felt bested. Once again, he’d underestimated a guy with a baby face, and when had that ever worked out for him?
The feel of Mateo’s arm around his shoulder sent chills rising down his arms. Marisol, Mateo’s sister, was lavishing them in excited descriptions of everything that awaited them inside the party.
An authentic Sonoran caterer whose carne asada was to die for, a band that knew all the Mexican hits of their childhood.
They even did a great rendition of Juan Gabriel’s famed live performance of “Hasta Que Te Conocí.”
His chest tensed. He was pretty sure that was the song that had played on Mateo’s wireless speaker when he’d danced them around their motel room on that fateful night that ruined everything, their swinging hips sealed together, chills racing up Jeff’s spine when the legion of trumpeters had joined in.
Moments before Mateo brought his mouth to his and Jeff felt his orderly world fall away and a doorway to something forbidden and enticing open at the hands of a junior Marine he had no business dancing with, kissing with, falling into bed with.
What the hell was he doing here?
He was a forty-five-year-old man, a senior Marine with multiple combat tours, and he’d been bested by the pushy boyfriend of the man he shouldn’t love.
As they walked over the thick carpeting in the corridor between ballrooms, Mateo kept looking at him, arm clamped on his shoulders, joy lighting up his big brown eyes that could always convey emotions in hypnotizing pairs—devotion and fear, desire and hurt.
Breathe, listen, survey—a time-tested strategy for breeding focus in the midst of anxiety.
He’d never been to Sapphire Cove, so he tried to ground himself by focusing on the details. White walls with glossy wainscoting, light fixtures like upended coral formations.
Suddenly Marisol threw open a set of double doors.
Guests surged toward them. Some of the faces were familiar, Marines he hadn’t seen in years because they’d either gotten out or been assigned to different bases.
And that made it easier suddenly, that a crowd of folks rushed forward to say their hellos.
Hands pumped, mildly tipsy aggressive half hugs all around.
He made conversation as best he could, but Buckley Mitchell’s stare was a constant presence.
It was that hug , Jeff thought. That hug in the motor court did me in, and now I’ve got a target on my back.
The ballroom had been cut in half by a divider, and almost every song the band played was in Spanish.
Mateo stayed close. The two of them told Marine stories with old friends as if no time had passed, but it felt like a performance.
A good while into the party, after the birthday cake, they ended up alone together.
Their high-top table was next to an open set of soaring glass doors.
Outside was a narrow band of lawn and a stone balustrade.
Just beyond, the cliffs plunged to what he assumed was the hotel’s beach.
Two glasses of champagne had dulled the edge, helping him conceal a hunger he was determined to keep hidden from the world after failing so miserably in the motor court.
Marine Corps master sergeants weren’t supposed to act like lovesick teenage boys.
Because he’d been dancing with Buckley earlier, Mateo’s wavy hair was rumpled, a couple black locks draping his forehead. And there was that eager look that had melted his heart so often over the years. A look that said everything they did together was an amazing adventure Jeff had made possible.
“What happened to champagne is the cotton candy of alcohol ?” Mateo asked.
“Special occasion.” Jeff toasted the birthday boy. “And I never said I hated cotton candy.”
Mateo laughed, took a sip from his own sparkling flute. “You know, you can tell me if you think I wussed out. I know I didn’t talk about my discharge with you before I did it…and I don’t know…”
“Since when is leaving the Marines wussing out? Not everybody’s cut out to be career military.”
“So that’s not why you went dark on me? You weren’t judging me?”
“I’d never judge you.”
“You judged me a little bit. Sometimes. In good ways.”
“I was your staff NCO. It was my job.”
Mateo smiled. “Yeah, but you also judged my surfing.”
“Your surfing required work in the beginning, that’s true. But as with most things in your life, it was about building up confidence through practice and routine.”
But the word surfing took him back to that sunny afternoon on the beach at San Onofre, when he was still a gunnery sergeant and Mateo was simply another straight Marine he was mentoring.
They’d been sitting on their boards looking out at the sparkling sea when Jeff had asked him how things were going with that girl he’d been chatting with on Tinder.
Out of nowhere, in a halting, unsure voice as he plucked at the cuff strap on the right ankle of his wet suit, Mateo had said, “I don’t know if me and women are gonna be a thing, gunny. ”
And Jeff had been forced to breathe and focus like he was scanning rooftops for camouflaged snipers.
Never in a million years would he have allowed himself to get so close to a Marine as sweet, innocent, and beautiful as Mateo Cano if he thought the guy had been less than a hundred percent straight, and suddenly he was stuck.
They’d had a long, careful talk that day.
Jeff was out, but he didn’t skywrite it.
He’d entered the Corps during the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell era, and some level of secrecy —what some folks liked to call discretion —was still wound up in his DNA.
And it wasn’t the first time he’d had the When did you know for sure talk with a young Marine who was still finding himself.
But none of those guys had made his stomach somersault the way Mateo did.
He was an expert at keeping his feelings for unattainable straight guys inside a box, and that’s where he’d assumed his feelings for Mateo could live too.
But in an instant, the way the guy always looked at him—as if he’d not only hung the moon but made it a wonderful place to live—meant something else entirely.
It would take all of Jeff’s strength not to explore the promise in that look, he’d realized that day.
A few months later, his strength ran out, and the result was several nights in San Diego that ruined everything.
But it sounded like Mateo hadn’t even thought about their motel room antics as he’d ruminated over Jeff’s retreat. Instead, the poor guy had imagined Jeff was judging him, disdaining him, when the truth was, Jeff had been feeling those things about himself.
Out on the dance floor, Marisol and another woman he didn’t know made a gyrating sandwich out of Buckley. Crazy thoughts surged through his head at the sight of his swinging hips. Mateo’s hands gripping them. Jeff’s hands caught up in Mateo’s. Borders blurred, rules broken.
What would it be like to watch Mateo plow that firecracker hard?
Wishful thinking, assuming he’d been brought here as some sort of birthday hookup.
Buckley was probably pissed as hell, which was why he was steering clear of them now.
He’d tried to surprise his boyfriend with his long-lost friend only to find out the two of them had hooked up.
And because Jeff had been a giant wuss about texting back, he hadn’t given Buckley an opportunity to share his feelings about the revelation and politely ask him not to show.
The most plausible storyline for this wildly messed-up evening, he was sure.
And if every now and then Buckley shot them both a searching look that seemed a little mischievous, he was probably strategizing on how to embarrass Jeff without ruining Mateo’s party.
Just like Jeff was trying to figure out how to expose Buckley’s lie about moving to Japan without killing the celebration.
“So Buckley said something happened with your parents.”
Mateo winced. Jeff tried not to wince too, regretting the curveball he’d thrown. He’d wanted to show concern, but he’d also used a painful subject to deflect from his dark plotting.