Invisible Love Letter(6)

By: Callie Anderson

“Alô?” I said.

“Oi, meu amor.” She said. Hello, my love, in Portuguese. Though Regina spoke some English, her accent made her timid and she never wanted to speak it with me.

“Oi, Tia,” I moaned into the phone.

“Did I wake you?” she asked.

“No.” I tried to clear my throat. “I'm just getting ready to go to the airport,” I lied.

“Oh good. I was worried that you would miss your flight since you said you were going to celebrate last night.”

Her voice felt like needles stabbing into my brain. She was younger than my mother by two years, and when my father passed away, she’d immediately hopped on a plane to be at my side. For the past eight years, I had been living with her and my uncle Neto. It wasn’t easy for them to take on a teenager who had lost both parents, but they never gave up trying to make me feel at home.

“Call me when you board the plane.”

“Will do.”

I swallowed back the vomit from my hangover as I hung up the phone. From the corner of my eye, I spotted an old bottle of water that had fallen off the nightstand and chugged it back. It did nothing to alleviate my migraine, but at least a part of my thirst had been quenched.

After I was done emptying my stomach and washing my face, I needed coffee to cure my headache.—strong black coffee. Our kitchen was in the back corner of the apartment, and the walk towards the coffee machine seemed longer than usual this morning. My hand pressed against the swinging door that separated the kitchen from living room. I pushed the door forward . . .

And stopped short.

My head jolted, causing a sharp, lightning pain to shoot through my eyes. Weston stood shirtless with his hip resting against the countertop. My hand firmly braced on the swinging door, I held my breath as I scanned his bare chest before letting my gaze move up to his face. His eyes locked with mine and I took a short step forward, feeling hesitant and confused.

“How do you feel?” His voice was raspy, sultry and even sexier than I remembered.

My words were lodged somewhere between ‘what the hell happened’ and this gorgeous man in front of me, so I looked down at his chest. Again. The hair on his pecs was buzzed low, and his skin looked like the sun had kissed it. He appeared Latin with a touch of something exotic, and his eyes were light, yet stormy.

Still unable to speak, I nodded as I peeked at his arms. For a lean guy, he was cut. His right bicep was covered with a coy fish tattoo and a tribal design was displayed over his pecs. My eyes grazed lower; I angled my head a little to get a better view, and immediately met his washboard abs. My heart raced in my chest. He was here, shirtless, in my kitchen, and he looked delectable. He reminded me of caramel chocolate. I would do anything to take just one bite.

Then reality smacked me upside the head.

He was here, but he wasn't in my bed when I woke up. Nor was he in Leslie's bed. Monica had no problem throwing herself at him last night, so it was obvious he’d spent the night with her. I cleared my throat and reached in the cupboard where we kept the coffee mugs.

“I'm fine.”

I pulled one out and walked to the coffee pot. It was a tiny kitchen and now it felt the size of a matchbox. I felt his eyes on me and my skin burned with each step I took. I was wearing booty shorts and a camisole. With no bra.

I took the carafe and filled my cup with pitch-black coffee. I was the only one in the house who liked coffee, so I knew he had made it. I looked out the kitchen window and towards the garden view of our apartment complex. Weston shifted his feet under him and turned towards me. My elbows were tucked at my sides, holding my boobs to hide them from his view. My pounding headache had dissipated, replaced with my racing heart.

I shouldn't have wanted him.

He’d spent the night with Monica.

Yet I wanted him to toss me on the counter and kiss me until our lips were bruised.

“Did you have fun last night?” he asked, his voice soft, soothing.

I took a sip of my hot, bitter coffee and nodded slowly. “Yes . . . From what I remember, it was a lot of fun.” I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the palm trees, the green grass, even Mrs. Lipsky's green Cadillac. Anything to divert my focus away from him.

Weston cleared his throat. “What's strike two?”

He remembered.

I turned to face him, my arms now covering my breasts. It was warm in the house, but I felt my hard nipples pressing against my thin camisole. “Why does it matter?” I asked.

“Because…” He took a step closer, and it felt as if my heart would explode out of my chest. He lifted his hand and gently ran it down my shoulder. “I can deal with one strike against me, but two seems unfair. Especially since I don’t know what I did to deserve it.”

I gave him a sideways grin. “It's irrelevant.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

I wanted time to stop right there; not another second to go by. I needed to stay locked in that moment with him where the outside world didn’t exist. A world where he wasn’t a musician or a womanizer.

A world where I wasn’t leaving the country in three hours.

I wanted to stay paralyzed in this moment with him because Weston made me feel things I had never experienced before: jealousy, butterflies, excitement. I wanted none of it to ever stop.

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