UnConventional Page 5

  “You’re not weird. Well, you are. But a cute weird, not a bad weird.” He wiggles his eyebrows in the most ridiculously silly, yet endearing way.

  I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling again. He has this wonderful way of relieving my tension, putting me at ease.

  He’s gazing at me, his eyes soft and gorgeous, in a way no man has ever looked at me before. “Seriously, I’m used to weird. In the chair, I’m basically invisible. But with these…” He picks up a crutch, holds it horizontally, balanced in one hand as if weighing it, his eyes fixed on where his palm meets the metal. “Ignoring my disability is impossible.” He tightens his fist around the crutch, then flips it as if it were a baton, setting it beside its mate. Clearing his throat, his eyes meet mine, but they’re unreadable, as if there’s some deeper element to this otherwise factual admission. Especially since it seems an odd thing for him to say; so far he’s been completely open and comfortable with his disability.

  I have this urge to climb in his lap, embrace him, have him confess every secret, explain what that look means. And though I’m not ready to tell him about Stephen, or how sexy his walk or chair is, somehow, I feel disarmingly comfortable with him. Like, no matter what I say, he’ll make it okay.

  How weird is that, considering I barely know him?

  “Well, I think you’d be pretty hard to ignore, period,” I say, again feeling the heat in my cheeks.

  He beams. “Ditto.”

  “You’re an incredible liar.”

  He frowns, but before he can say anything, a waiter delivers three orders of beignets, buried in sugar, two café au laits, and two glasses of ice water.

  Santiago immediately digs in, powdered sugar inevitably going everywhere, dusting the table, his hand, and his clothes.

  “Everyone’ll know where we’ve been,” I remark. After a moment’s hesitation, I lean forward to take a tentative bite, making my best attempt to eat neatly.

  He’s licking his fingers, and fuck, if it isn’t simultaneously the cutest and hottest thing I’ve ever seen. “I’ll be cleaning sugar off my crutch handles for a week, but totally worth it.” He picks a second up, dumping sugar into his coffee. “There’s this place in River Oaks that does beignets, but it’s not the same. Nowhere in Houston seems to get the sugar right, either. It should look like a bakery exploded on your beignets. You can’t be stingy.” He takes another bite, managing to dust the tip of his nose with sugar.

  I giggle, especially at the amusing exaggerated frown he makes, crossing his eyes to stare at the tip of his nose. Then, on a whim, I touch a fingertip to it. I bring my finger to my mouth, hesitate a moment, then playfully suck off the sugar.

  “Don’t start something you’re not willing to finish,” he says with a smirk, his eyes flashing, wiping his face with a napkin. In typical powdered-sugar fashion, all that he manages to do is smear it over his cheek. The more he tries to wipe it away, the more of a mess he makes.

  I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt, and I can barely speak. “Hold on, hold on,” I sputter, grabbing a napkin and dipping it in my water, then lean forward to wipe the sugar away.

  He freezes, and our eyes meet. My hand stalls on his cheek. We’re within kissing distance, and I can smell the hint of his cologne, sweat. Earthy and woody and masculine and delicious. The only thing on my mind is how good kissing him would feel, how he’ll taste exactly as I imagined: like sugar and chicory.

  Our breathing has synced, and the din of the Quarter around us—the clink of glasses, murmur of voices, hum of traffic, click of mule feet on concrete, faint music from deep in Jackson Square—all fade away until it’s just the soft thrum of my heart in my ears, and him.

  He licks his lips, a subtle, unconscious gesture that signals how badly he wants to kiss me too. If I have any doubts, his eyes, gorgeous milky brown with the hint of amber, confirm this. We lean closer; our breath mingles.

  And my phone chimes.

  An obnoxious ringtone I chose for Stephen’s text messages. Fuck. I was so swept up in my date—no, it’s not a date, it’s just, oh God, how can I even deny it when we nearly kissed?—with Santiago, I forgot to text him. Stephen always stays extra busy at work when I’m away, making the most efficient use of his time while I’m gone, but I try to make sure to text or call him regularly anyway.

  Santiago takes the napkin from me, the magic broken. “Do you need to get that?”

  I sigh, sink back into my seat. No, I think, but it’s probably bad enough I’m cheating on my husband with the man who walked straight out of my dreams—crutches and all. I don’t need to ignore his text messages too.

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  Santiago cleans his face while I pull my phone out of my pocket.

  Where r u, Stephen’s text says. As disgusting and annoying as it is, Stephen loves text speak. Any way he can streamline his life, make communication more efficient, is right up his alley.

  I glance up at Santiago, who’s drinking his coffee, trying to pretend he’s gazing past me, at the artist setting up across the street in front of the wrought-iron fence surrounding Jackson Square.

  Had early meeting with colleague, I type quickly. It’s not a lie. Maybe not the entire truth, but what am I supposed to say? Stephen, you know, I’ve had this thing, this attraction, my whole life. I never told anyone about it, but basically I met this guy who is my fantasy made real, and, well, you don’t mind if I fuck him, do you? I freeze, resist the urge to look up at Santiago. It’s bad enough we nearly kissed. Now I’m thinking of having sex with him? And it’s not like he has any idea about… I mean, if he knew how I felt about his walk or his chair or those crutches…

  “Everything okay?”

  “What?” I jerk my head up, unconsciously hiding my phone in my lap.

  “Bad news?”

  “Oh. No. Um. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.” I hurriedly shove my phone back in my pocket. “Just realizing we need to get back soon.”

  His eyebrows furrow, studying me, as if trying to read between the lines, obviously not convinced, but he lets it go, picking up another beignet. “I wonder what awful food they’ll be serving us this year,” he says, taking a bite, a rain of sugar falling down.

  “Remember last year?”

  “Don’t remind me! I still have nightmares about that lunch! Chickenerfish. Was it chicken? Was it fish? I still don’t know.”

  We both laugh, a long, solid belly laugh. I’ve been with Santiago an hour, and I think I’ve already laughed more than I have in years.

  “Maybe there’s hope. I mean, we are in New Orleans.”

  He puts the remaining sugar from his empty plate into his coffee, stirring it. “Don’t hold your breath. I’ve been to several meetings here where there’d be a five-star restaurant across the street, yet they’d still serve us something horrible and inedible.”

  I pull off a piece of one of my beignets, letting what he said sink in. Why would a proofreader, especially one who works for Houston magazine, have meetings in New Orleans? I suppose he may not always have worked there.

  “You’ve hardly touched your beignets,” Santiago remarks, observing how I haven’t eaten the piece I tore off. He’s polished off nearly two orders—six doughnuts—by himself, and I’ve only taken a couple bites of mine.

  “Oh,” I say, staring down at my plate. “It’s nothing. Just…” I grip my medal, try to find a way to explain: the last time I ate beignets was with my mother. It isn’t like I forgot, exactly, just…being with Santiago makes it hard to be sad. It’s such an unfamiliar feeling. I can’t find words to express any of this, as the memory, one I tried to suppress—today is about today and not about ten years ago—struggles to surface.

  A different Café du Monde—this one in Lakeside Mall. My mother and I sit huddled in the crowded dining area, the bustle of holiday shoppers surrounding us, Santa’s workshop set up only feet away, dozens of bright-eyed children waiting for the chance to make a wish. My mom and I guard our packages between us, laughing as we sh
are our order of beignets, dusting the sugar into our coffees.

  Is it terrible that, however vivid that image is, I can no longer clearly visualize my mother’s face?

  I bite my lip, a stray tear falling despite my best attempts to blink it away.

  Santiago’s face transforms, and he delicately takes my hand in his. His skin is rough against mine, and I know I should pull away, but his touch is so grounding, I can’t. “I’m sorry. If anyone understands about people prying, it’s me. You don’t owe me anything.” He forces a smile, but it’s soft, sympathetic. “Thanks for indulging me, Di.”

  How is it that he can be so comforting when he doesn’t even know why I’m upset? Stephen is nothing like this. If he can’t see a logical connection, he’s mystified by my emotions.

  “It’s okay. Despite the near breakdown, I had fun. Really. The last time I ate beignets was…bittersweet. Thanks for giving me a new, good memory.”

  “Life is a series of memories, some good, some bad, that make us who we are,” Santiago responds, looking at me intently.

  “Is that from something?”

  He scrunches up his face, thinking. “I forget.” Then bursts into a smile. “Will you let me make more memories with you?”

  My own smile creeps across my face. If I were thinking logically, I’d say no immediately, tell him the truth, apologize, and rush back to the hotel, burying myself in work. But this pleasant warmth fills my body from his gentle gaze, his grounding touch, and I find myself saying, “I’d like that.”

  Is my tongue completely divorced from my brain?

  Ugh. Divorce. Probably shouldn’t use that word, all things considered.

  Chapter Five

  Santiago and I ended up lingering a little longer than we should have, so by the time we reach the edge of the lobby, near the turn off for the elevators and meeting area, everyone has begun to gather for the opening breakfast.

  “That was fun,” he admits, leaning a little heavier on his sticks. Even though we took a cab back, I can tell he’s tired, the effort of our morning adventure obviously weighing on him. “I really should go up and grab my chair though,” he says with a grin. “I’ll text you if I don’t see you later?”

  I nod, smiling. We exchanged numbers on the short ride back to the hotel, and though I hesitated to accept at first, now that we’re separating, I’m glad. I’m not sure what I’d do if I had to leave seeing him again to chance.

  “Di! Oh my God, you’re alive. I didn’t see you anywhere, and I get shit reception in…” Melanie rushes up to us, her voice cutting off immediately when she sees Santiago.

  I’ve never seen Mel in anything other than heels, and she’s naturally tall, especially by New Orleans’ standards, so she and Santiago, especially with the extra lean, stand almost eye to eye. He shifts his weight, dropping his right hand out of his crutch and offering it to her.

  “Santiago Durán. Diego.”

  Mel glances at me quickly before accepting. “You must be something if you got this one to bail out of the convention already.”

  “Technically it hadn’t started yet,” I mumble, turning my ankle in my nervousness. “This is my friend Melanie Baker.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Santiago says, taking his hand back and securing it again on its grip. “But I have to go. Though I’m sure I’ll see you both around. Bye, Di,” he says with a sweet smile.

  Melanie waves, then wraps her arm around my shoulder and leads me hurriedly toward the convention. Once we’re out of earshot of the elevators and the majority of the conventioneers, gathering up their name tags, she pushes me into the wall.

  “Why didn’t you tell me he was…was…?”

  I know she doesn’t mean “drop-dead sexy,” especially since she got a peek at him last night—even if she was pretty drunk.

  “I just found out this morning. But he took me to eat beignets. We had a lot of fun.”

  She’s gripping my shoulders, staring at me hard. “What! And you didn’t bring me any?” She takes a deep breath, shakes her head, refocuses. “Sorry. Getting off track. Did I just hear the word ‘fun’ escape your lips? You’ve always had me convinced that you were allergic to it.”

  I push away from her, wiping stray sugar off my pants. “That’s not fair, Mel,” I say, walking toward the check-in table.

  I can see Melanie studying me in my peripheral vision. Suddenly, she gasps. “You like him! I mean, like, really like him. Like, ‘ready to make an exchange’ like him!”

  “More like an upgrade,” I mumble, searching for my name amid the sea of tags.

  “That’s it. We’re playing hooky. I’m taking you shopping so you can pick out some sexy clothes to flaunt that hot little body of yours.”

  I pause, staring up at Melanie, awestruck. Now, she has a hot body. Tall, thin, with gorgeous, full, natural breasts; she has four kids, but you’d never know it from looking at her.

  “I have a schedule. Besides, it’s not like anything can come of it,” I say with a twitch of my left ring finger. I spot my name, Nadine Monroe, and sigh. No matter how hard I try, I can never get them to use Di.

  “Fine. We’ll go to the brunch and the first panel, then afternoon shopping. Even if I have to drag you.”

  * * * *

  The main ballroom is packed with conventioneers gathered around tables, talking loudly over what Santiago correctly predicted is mediocre food—cold eggs on hard biscuits and unripe fruit. Good thing I managed to polish off my coffee and a couple beignets beforehand, I think, picturing Santiago covered in sugar.

  Melanie eats like a lumberjack—I swear, the girl has the metabolism anyone’d kill for—talking to the woman who sits on her opposite side. I’m slouched in my chair, flipping through my phone’s messages, a weight of sadness on my shoulders. Nothing from Stephen.

  I’m about to squirrel my phone away when it buzzes in my hand. I glance around, relieved I switched it to silent mode. Everyone’s busy talking and eating, so I peek at the message. Just two words: Look up.

  So I do. Across the room, a few tables over but directly in my line of sight, sits Santiago. He smiles when I find him, offering a faint wave, before ducking back to his phone.

  A moment later, my phone buzzes again. Grateful for the beignets? What are you doing after this?

  I smile, glance up at him briefly before quickly typing my response. Seminar on working with nonnative speakers.

  Oh, sounds exciting. I’m free. Mind if I stalk you?

  I laugh. A few people at the table, including Mel, turn to look at me, but I ignore them. I thought the point of stalking was the stalkee didn’t know about it.

  Hmm. Probably a good thing I’m a proofreader and not a professional stalker.

  I laugh again, blush, and cover my mouth as my tablemates glare. It’s in the Magnolia Room. Meet you there?

  Santiago and I text back and forth the rest of the brunch, until he excuses himself to chat with some people. Not wanting to truly say good-bye—even if it’s only a few minutes, I scroll through our conversation.

  “You’re acting like my twelve-year-old daughter.”

  Melanie’s voice startles me, and I reflexively hide my phone, as if she were my mother, and I her teen who just got caught sexting. Not that Santiago and I were sexting…I mean, uh…

  I glance up. Santiago’s pushed away from the table, laughing and chatting with another man. I can’t see his hands from here, but I imagine they grip his push rims. His head is tilted back, so he can better make eye contact with his companion, and even from here, I can see that sexy, entrancing, charming grin.

  “Earth to Di,” Mel says, snapping her fingers and making me jump.

  I squeak, my heart racing. “Jesus!”

  Our table has emptied, leaving us alone. She leans closer. “I don’t think that’s who you were thinking of just now,” she says, then gives me a wink. “He is hot; I’ll give you that. I always did have a thing for Latins, even if I didn’t marry one.”

  “M
el!” I whine.

  She laughs, but her attention is caught by someone across the room. Sighing heavily, she stands. “I’ll meet up with you. I gotta go talk to a few people first. Try not to be too naughty. Your boss is around here somewhere.” She laughs and pats me on the back. When I look up, Santiago’s gone, lost in the crowd, so I grab my bag and head off to the Magnolia Room.

  * * * *

  This conference room is fairly typical, a plain square room with long tables in two columns facing a dais, on which sits another table with chairs and a podium. A large screen hangs from the ceiling. On one side of the room, toward the back, pushed against the wall, is a coffee station. The only thing (other than the plaque outside the door) indicating this is the Magnolia Room is the colorful printed carpet, patterned with white blossoms.

  I select a table toward the back, easily reachable for Santiago, and remove one chair, carrying it toward a stack of extras in the corner. I’m one of the first here, the room quiet and empty, but I want to make sure Santiago has a place beside me. I pull out my tablet and keyboard, setting up, even though I know enough on this subject I doubt they’ll teach me anything new.

  I’m standing, debating getting some coffee, when he rolls in. I don’t think I could ever get tired of the smile he flashes me. It hits me like a pulse of energy, wraps me in warmth, and makes me pleasantly dizzy.

  He notices the removed chair, and his expression shifts. Softer, his eyes a blend of emotions I don’t know him well enough to distinguish. He smiles. “Thanks.”

  I shrug, know my cheeks are flushed. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.”

  I realize, standing, I only have a few inches over Santiago in his chair. Although I love the crutches, which I notice he carries slung behind him—so that’s what those black things were for that I noticed yesterday in the gym—there’s a certain intimacy his chair brings that I love. Deciding it’d be rude to keep standing here like a lovesick teen, I sink into my seat beside him with a sigh.