Page 4 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Marlowe

“I can’t crash a stranger’s birthday party!” I exclaim as Ale leads me through cobblestone streets. Full on tapas and Agua de Valencia, with my mind calmer than it’s been since I arrived in Spain—which is miraculous considering I haven’t connected with my bank—I feel giddy and lighthearted.

Impulsive enough to take Ale up on his offer to go to his friend’s birthday party despite knowing it’s a terrible idea. I don’t know his friend; I hardly know him.

“Those are the best parties to crash,” he disagrees.

I stall, fishing for more information. “It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. What kind of party is this?”

“A Spanish one. It’s a good friend of mine. He’ll be happy I brought you along.”

“Are you sure?” I falter, not wanting to head back to Gerard’s hotel and hoping reception has another available room for the night, despite knowing it’s the right thing to do. The practical, sensible, responsible option.

“I’m certain. If you only have one night here, you should embrace it.” Ale’s tone is resolute. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders mid-shrug, as if to say, it’s up to you.

We stop at a pedestrian red light, and I shift my weight from one foot to the next. The heat of the evening wraps around me. Cars and cyclists whip past. And the city pulses with energy.

I can practically hear my college bestie, Hazel, cringing as she murmurs, going back to the hotel is the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.

By the time Hazel returned to campus from her year abroad, I was dating Gerard.

But before that…we used to have fun. Late nights out, dancing on bars with Hazel stealing hats from every guy she could swipe one from.

Morning brunches, half hungover, sipping strong coffee and indulging in Johnny Cakes.

Standing on this street corner with Ale, I can feel the excitement buzzing in my eardrums. Adrenaline rushes through my veins. And endless possibilities shimmer before me.

The same way they did before Gerard. Before Dad’s diagnosis. Before I had to step into the role of de facto COO of Prescott Sail and full-time caretaker.

Before.

“Okay, I’m in,” I agree, finally coming to a decision.

I say it with gusto and my commitment to a night out is a bit of a relief. When I go in, I’m one hundred percent committed. The version of me since walking in on Gerard with the blonde has me feeling out of sorts and I’m desperate for some solid ground.

Even if it’s dancing at a nightclub. Maybe that’s what I need?

“ Bueno! ” Ale wraps an arm around my waist and spins me in a circle, grasping my hand at the last moment to dip me. “Do you dance?”

I bite my bottom lip, my blood rushing to my head as he pulls me upright. “Yes. Do you?”

“Marli, I’m Spanish,” he laughs.

I arch an eyebrow, liking the way he shortened my name. Liking that he gave me a personalized nickname at all when I’ve only known him for a few hours.

“It’s in my blood. And it was a requirement of my abuela’s. When my sisters started flamenco lessons, she signed me and my cousins Rafa and Sebastien up for Paso Doble lessons.” He wrinkles his nose.

“What’s that?” I bite my bottom lip to keep from grinning. The more I learn about Ale’s abuela, the more I adore her.

“It’s like ballroom style but with Spanish flair. It originated from the Spanish bullfights with the man dancing as the matador, the bullfighter, and the woman as the red cape, or sometimes, even the bull.”

I arch an eyebrow. “I have to see this.”

Ale chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s very old-fashioned. I don’t even remember the steps, and I’d prefer to dance bachata now.” His eyes spark. “Especially with you.”

“Okay, you don’t have to break out the ballroom moves. But if I’m coming out, you have to dance with me.” I poke him in the chest, my fingertip meeting solid muscle. “I never go clubbing. And it’s already past my bedtime. I’m breaking all my rules.”

Ale grasps my finger and tugs me even closer, sliding a hand on my hip. “ Te lo prometo ,” he murmurs in my ear. A shiver shimmies down my spine, and I practically swoon. “ I promise you. Tonight, I will break my rules too.”

I pull in a breath, the scent of his skin—citrus oranges, clean soap, and salty sea—washing over me like a wave.

It drags me under, and I pitch forward on my toes, wanting to be closer to him.

His hand tightens on my hip and when his eyes find mine, his gaze holds me hostage.

Pinning me to this moment, to this street corner, to the magic of tonight.

Around us, the city blurs, dropping into the background.

Ale’s smile slips and his expression changes from teasing to intense, nearly severe, as he studies me. His nostrils flare as he inhales, his eyelids falling to half-mast.

I lift my chin slightly, daring him, begging him, to kiss me.

His eyes flash for a heartbeat before his mouth arcs, so tantalizingly slowly, over mine. When his lips are a whisper away, a passerby whistles loudly, and Ale jerks back, the moment between us snapping.

And I feel the loss of his heat, the forfeiture of the moment, like a physical ache. It reverberates in my chest—a pang of withered hope.

Of drowned desire.

Of stark reality.

The way I feel in Ale’s presence is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s a delicate and conflicting cocktail of emotions—giddy, anxious, eager, hesitant. Yet, at the forefront, I feel alive and present, with all five senses buzzing, and my heart bursting with the promise of more.

I don’t remember the last time I felt this way, but if the intensity of this evening is anything to go by, it’s been too long.

He loosens his grip on my waist but doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, a grin cuts across his gorgeous face. “When we dance, can you keep up?” he teases, navigating our conversation back to shallow, safer waters.

I snort and roll my eyes, feigning bravado. “Trust me, Ale, I can dance.” And years ago, I could.

I hope that still holds true. I pray dancing is like riding a bike and after a song or two, I’ll find and hold the rhythm.

Because while I’ve never been to a club in Spain, I have a feeling it’s not akin to the lame dances I do in Grandpa’s kitchen while washing pots after Sunday night dinner.

Ale and I walk another half a block before my mouth drops open. “Oh, wow.” There’s a line of people, circling around a building, more than a street length, waiting for access to a nightclub.

Cava, vodka, and gin thrum through my veins, keeping me warm and relaxed. On some level, I realize how irresponsible I’m being. Dinner with a stranger. Out to a club in the middle of the night.

Marlowe Claire Prescott doesn’t do rash and spontaneous things.

And where did that get me?

Nowhere. Alone.

I shake the thought from my mind and reach for Ale.

He’s there, lending me his arm as I link mine through it like the old soul I am. I glance down at my dress. It’s hardly something women wear to nightclubs.

“You look beautiful,” Ale reassures me, his lips brushing over my ear.

I look at him, but his face is turned toward the bouncers at the front of the line, his shoulders lifted as if to conceal his expression.

I turn to glance over my shoulder, taking in the long wait. Ale dips his head, avoiding looking at anyone, as he steps to the front.

I yank on his arm, mortified to be seen cutting the queue. “Ale,” I hiss.

He shakes his head and murmurs something in low, rapid Spanish, to the bouncer. Like magic, the velvet rope is held open. We’re escorted through quickly and as we clear the threshold, cheers—celebratory cries instead of the insults I expect—ring out behind us.

I turn again but Ale tugs me forward, wrapping an arm around my waist, as we enter the nightclub.

I gasp, my eyes adjusting to the smokey darkness of the club.

But in the next moment, a colorful light show begins with women dancing on low platforms and performing acrobatics above the crowd in suspended cages.

The music is loud, pulsing in my eardrums and causing the space under my feet to rumble.

I turn in a half-circle, noting the dancing bodies, the colorful tubes of shots that are being tossed back with abandon, the illicit excitement that hangs in the air. It bursts with thrills I never knew existed.

“You okay?” Ale’s voice rumbles in my ear. I feel the vibration sweep my body, as if a live wire danced through it.

I nod and grip his arm tighter.

“I got you, Marli. We can leave whenever you want.”

I turn to look at him over my shoulder and he lifts an eyebrow, waiting for my answer.

And in that moment, I trust him. He doesn’t feel like a stranger anymore. It should alarm me, but the opposite holds true. I feel lighter, more buoyant, and more at ease than I have in years.

“I’m good,” I holler over the bass.

He nods and leads me to a roped-off VIP section. Ale dips his head and exchanges words with two huge, tough-looking men. I should really ask him what he does for a living or who his friend is.

But isn’t this what people do when they have birthday parties? Book out a VIP section of a club or a restaurant?

Ale steps past the velvet rope and threads his fingers with mine.

His hand is large and comforting; his skin is warm and centering.

I squeeze once and note the muscle that tics in his jaw as he gazes at me for a heartbeat.

Desire heats his irises, and I feel his hunger cut through my stomach—needy and intense.

I suck in a breath, the music loud and edgy, as Ale cups my cheek with his other hand. He swipes his thumb along my cheekbone, the motion almost tender. When he drops his hand, he squeezes my fingers twice before tilting his head toward the open velvet rope.

I step forward, look up, and breathe in the new experience.

A slice of life I never considered and now want to hold on to with both hands.