Page 24 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

The Boricua throws his arm around the Texan’s shoulders. “Thank you, I do anything for my amigos.”

I stop for a second once we’re inside the private area.

It’s larger than my living room, with furniture that gleams with expensive and new.

Capped bottles of water, liquor and non-alcoholic beverages sit comfortable in a bed of ice in the middle of the low table—can’t be called coffee table because there’s none in sight.

It opens up to a balcony from which we have perfect view of the crowd downstairs.

Someone must’ve noticed us because Rose is waving down.

There’s a touchscreen against the wall that the hostess explains is the way to ask for further service. And we have our own private restroom.

This is something I can never say aloud because boo freaking hoo, but sometimes I forget that I’m rich now and that I can afford this.

Back when I was still in Venezuela, the clubs were rundown and much smaller, packed with more people, with a DJ instead of a live band, and I couldn’t buy a whole bottle of rum with everything I had in my bank.

I was much more relaxed, though—there for a good time with my friends. Bailar pegao, make out with someone, and get trashed on Cacique in that order.

I check my surroundings once more. I’ll teach Audrey how to follow a few basic moves, but I won’t stick to her like glue. We’re definitely not kissing until we have to at the chapel. And I’m sticking to water no matter what. No way we’re rehashing my previous night club escapades.

Our team captain immediately plops on the largest sofa, nearly swallowing it in its entirety, but his girlfriend grabs onto his hand and pulls. “Nuh-uh, we’re gonna dance.”

It’s loud enough that I can’t make out the literal meaning of his grumble, yet he stands up to tag along.

“No booze,” Hope tells her man with a stern index finger.

The guy responds with “I don’t need it,” and grabs Hope’s hips like this is their living room.

Lucky walks by me, saying, “Yeah, I’m gonna go find me a dancing partner. See ya laters, cabrones.”

Audrey turns to me again. “I confess, I’m out of my depth here.”

“Kinda same,” I admit, running my free hand through my hair and down to the back of my neck. “The last time I did this I produced a kid.”

She chokes. “Crap, don’t scare me like that.”

Weirdly enough, I find the nerve to laugh. “Don’t worry, you’re safe.”

“What does that mean?” She cocks a defiant eyebrow at me, and it takes me a moment to figure out how she could take offense.

It’s not that I don’t want her.

It’s that I know she doesn’t want me, and I’ll never impose myself on her.

I lean closer to her and whisper into her ear, “What I mean is that I’m a big boy and can control myself now.”

Somehow. I don’t know how. I’m certainly struggling from just having her hand on my forearm, and I keep clenching my muscles more than necessary. The sweet apple scent that clings to her skin is making my head spin, and my heart is beating to the same rhythm of the fast percussion of salsa.

She rises on her tip toes to say, “Good boy, good answer.”

I’m overjoyed at my sartorial choices right now, because her hand falls right on my rolled up sleeve and she can’t feel the goosebumps that have broken all over my body.

“So…” I drift off, searching for any neurons that are still functioning. “We have some time to kill, do you want to hang out here or mingle downstairs?”

One look at Hope and Cade line dancing across the expanse of the private area, and at the fact that our other friends have joined the masses, and she makes up her mind.

“Honestly, I don’t want Hope to see how inept I am at Latin dancing, let’s go downstairs.”

I tease her back, “You do know that many more people will witness your two left feet on the floor, right?”

“I’m counting on them being too drunk to notice me.” Audrey tugs at my arm and I’m happy to follow.

Her steps down the private corridor are strong and steady, no sign of the nerves that were fluttering inside of her. What a strange woman. I can’t believe how no one has married her already.

The corridor veers on the right toward the entrance, and on the left toward the dance floor at the back of the establishment, close to the DJ and one of the bars.

I switch us around so that she’s behind me and I can break the ice.

Her grip on my arm slides and I pause in between strangers, glancing back.

After a pause, she grabs onto my hand—and I mean, fingers between mine, tight grip and no chill.

Like we do this all the time. I turn back to the front and keep going, also like this is no big deal.

But her hand is both soft and strong, also a bit too cool.

So she really is nervous, huh?

This is gonna distract her real good though.

I find us a good spot by the stage and whirl us around so that her back is against it, and the drunk strangers are behind me. “Ready?” I have to shout.

“No,” she yells back and raises her hands like she’s setting up for a waltz. “What do I do?”

I grab her hands and pull her closer, leaning into her ear. “Follow my lead,” I paraphrase her.

She stiffens but still allows me to guide her hands.

One goes to my shoulder, the other one stays nestled in my hand.

My free hand goes to her waist, which is lower and more daring than a fancy European dance.

And even though I’m sticking to my vow of keeping a decent distance, I still position her closer than when we danced the first time.

Audrey watches me like a hawk, lowering her focus down to my feet.

I release her waist to tip her chin back up, and she blinks in confusion. “Don’t look down, just go with the flow,” I kinda shout into her ear.

In the same volume, she asks, “What if my flow is awful?”

“Then go with my flow.”

She cringes like this is the scariest part of the night, and not the I do’s that will follow. The good thing is that she’s probably not thinking about that right now, though, and frankly neither am I.

I have enough Indigenous and Black blood to make me a percussion guy, and I find my rhythm with no effort. Audrey resists the motions at first, or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t know what to do. After a few easy steps back and forth in the classic 1-2-3–5-6-7, she starts to follow.

“This isn’t so bad,” she yells.

All I do is smirk a little.

The beat changes and I show her the classic Venezuelan style, which is probably the simplest of all.

I alternate holding her hands as I swing to the side, moving away from her while my feet do their thing.

She gets the hang of it, even if she can’t yet add any swing to her steps.

After a moment I return her to my arms, and the song starts to wind down.

A different beat leaks in slowly, and I don’t need to have gone to college to know what’s coming. El papá de los helados: a classic reggaeton jam by Daddy Yankee.

As the tune builds up, I speak into her ear again, “Are you ready for the big leagues?”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

Slowly, I slide my hands down to land at her hips—not her waist, lower. Where she’s gonna have to move. We stand still. Me, waiting to see if she’s not on board. Her, making a decision.

The response comes with her hands settling on my shoulders and her scream-saying, “Just don’t let me fall.”

I wouldn’t. Never in this life. Especially not when I’m too busy falling myself.

Instead, I respond, “I got you.”

Pressing my fingers subtly, I guide her hips to follow mine.

Reggaeton is probably the easiest Latin dance, in that it doesn’t require special footwork.

It’s all about the swing and the swag. We’re as close as it can get without rubbing all up on each other, and she keeps blinking owlishly at me under the strobe lights.

Someone bumps into my back but I couldn’t care less, I have a handful of woman to focus on.

Daddy Yankee sings about a woman who is dura, which after playing with so many Puerto Ricans I learned is code for a hot woman.

I fix my eyes at a blurry spot behind Audrey, trying to turn my brain off to the fact that she’s hot.

In my arms. Moving her hips along with mine.

And that my skin is in flames, even when we’re not close enough.

How the hell am I going to behave when I have to kiss her at the chapel?