The Casanova Experience: A Friends to Lovers Romance (Ballers Book 2) Page 5

  “You want to go home?” he asked.

  I wiggled my eyebrows. “You want to stay out? It’s late.”

  “The night is young in Spain.”

  “Well,” I said, giving it half a thought. “I do have class tomorrow. Spanish Lit.”

  Chandler laughed. “Oh yeah, how’s Don Quixote coming? Did you finish it yet?”

  “Shut up,” I groused. “It’s like three thousand pages.”

  “So do you think it would be a bad decision to go to a late night salsa bar I know of?” He arched an eyebrow my way. Little did he know, he’d just said the magic words.

  Dancing was my Achilles’ heal and anyone that could actually salsa rose up in esteem but…Chandler? Salsa? I almost laughed out loud.

  “You know how to salsa dance?” I asked, dubious.

  He gave me a slightly offended look. “I’ll blow your mind,” he said in a flirty voice.

  I set the challenge. “Prove it.”

  Chandler smiled. “I will. Tonight.”

  “How do you even know how to salsa?” I asked.

  “It’s a great way to meet girls.”

  I rolled my eyes. Chandler’s motivations were beginning to become rather apparent. At least he was honest.

  “And, dancing late at night helps me to not be so hung over the next day for basketball practice,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “It gets the alcohol out of your system.”

  I feigned that I was thinking hard to make this decision. However, there was no way was I turning down an opportunity to go out and dance more. Not tonight.

  He looked at his watch as our driver cleared his throat and made a gesture for us to make up our minds, tapping the meter, which was running. “It’s two a.m. right now. Salsa goes until four. You ready to work up a sweat?”

  “I guess…why not,” I said, putting up some resistance. I didn’t want to show my hand. “Let’s go.”

  Six

  Amy

  The man wasn’t lying.

  He could dance so well, I questioned whether he might be gay.

  “That’s an unfair stereotype,” he shot back. “Some straight guys can totally dance, too. Especially when they have Spanish blood.”

  Normally, I had to take the lead on the dance floor; but finally, here was a man who seemed to always be one step ahead of me. His body was big compared to mine, but the man could move. After an hour of me enjoying every minute I had to get close to his rock hard body, we took a break and headed to the bar.

  “Two waters,” Chandler ordered.

  “Good call,” I said. I felt dehydrated not only from dancing but from all the alcohol I’d drunk earlier. We were both sweaty, as promised, but we were both having a really great time. He’d kept the flirting to a minimum but hadn’t made a move on me while out on the floor, where he was all about nothing but dancing and making sure I felt comfortable. That surprised me but, of course, Chandler was a suave one, that much I knew.

  “You feel like a quick bite to eat after here?”

  I wasn’t sure of the time but it was getting pretty late. “Where?” I asked.

  “I know a great seafood place by the marina,” he said, eying me. “Open all night.”

  But I was already shaking my head. “No can do,” I said. “I’m allergic to seafood—shellfish, of any kind. But I tend to just avoid all seafood as a precaution since a lot of places aren’t careful about keeping types of seafood separated and my family doctor told me to be extra careful while I’m abroad.” Especially late night seafood places, I thought. I never knew if they were cooking my ‘seafood free’ meal on the same grill they cooked everything else.

  Now he was staring at me. “Oh, shit. That sucks.”

  “Yeah…” I said, and tapped my party purse. “No big deal. I always keep an Epi pen on me, just in case.”

  “Have you, ah, ever had to use it?” he asked, suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Just a couple times since I was a kid,” I answered.

  He frowned. “Does Maria know about this?”

  I had to smile at his serious response. “Of course. Why do think she never makes seafood when we live near the water?”

  I could see the wheels in his head turning. “Huh,” he said, drinking his water. “Good to know…”

  As I took a swig of the ice water, I remembered something that had been bothering me all night, that I had somehow forced to the back of my mind.

  “Hey Chandler,” I said, then paused. Yes, I needed to know the answer even though it might give away my position on the matter. "Where's your screaming girlfriend?"

  He laughed. “Funny you ask. I saw her making out with some guy at the bar tonight. And I ended things." He shook his head. “She also wasn’t my girlfriend. We were just dating, having fun. It was a casual thing, but I hate cheaters.”

  “That happened tonight? Just like that?” I asked, shocked. But I agreed with Chandler when it came to cheaters.

  “Right before I went into the hallway and saw that creepy dude hitting on you.”

  We each took another swig of our water and our eyes met.

  “You called me a matahombre before,” I said, mulling things over. “A man-eater. But you're a lady killer."

  He tried to deny it. "I've dated a few girls, sure—"

  "Stop being coy,” I said, not buying his bull. “Doña Maria even talked about how you have muchas chicas. What’s that about?”

  His expression softened slightly. "Didn’t think you caught it when she said that. Look, I'm twenty-one and I'm enjoying myself,” he admitted, not defensively or apologetically.

  I let out a sigh. “No shame in that, I suppose."

  He eyed me sharply. “What about you and your boyfriend?”

  “Yeah. What about me?”

  “I heard you yelling,” he said, looking away and raising his cup to his lips. “In your room. I’d just gotten home from practice…”

  “You heard that?” I asked, clearing my throat and kind of embarrassed.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping. I just heard the end of it, I think. And the words ‘we are officially over’. That, with what I heard Becca yell at the bar, makes me think you’re single now. Like me.”

  A really terrible idea cropped in my head. The numerous shots did what my Prozac and Xanax usually did: kept me in the kind of dull haze that made me react slow or not at all. Who was I kidding about where this was going? I was out late dancing with the sexiest man I’d ever seen in the flesh, and now we were both conveniently single all of the sudden.

  It was too good to be true.

  “Amelita—”

  "We can't hook up," I blurted out. As soon as the words were out, I had to remember to breathe properly.

  "What? Where did that come from?" he asked, perplexed.

  I felt my face get warm at the possibility that he’d had no thoughts about hooking up with me like I had. "What I mean is that I want to have a friend here,” I continued, deciding to let the thoughts in my head roll off my tongue. If this went to shit, I’d blame that on the alcohol, too. “And, yeah, I did just get out of a long, crappy relationship. And you're hot. Really hot.”

  "Uh, okay," Chandler replied, fighting back a grin. "Thanks. You’re hot, too.” He leaned in. “Very hot.” He’d whispered very hot in my ear, and then leaned back with a smirk. “But I don’t see your point about not hooking up.”

  I took a deep breath, brain on delay. The way he said very sent a chain reaction of butterflies through my body. They began at my neck and my throat, and traveled their way past my chest before landing square between my legs. Yeah, I needed to stop this right now.

  "We need to make a pact,” I said suddenly, determined. “We don't hook up. We'll just be friends. Nothing more."

  Chandler laughed hard, from the belly again. “You’re hilarious. Why don’t we just, you know, see where things go? Not put expectations and labels on things.”

  The guy was damn good. But just looking at him, I could tell he was one of the
guys who girls never said ‘no’ to and I was not about to be another one of his casual girls. Casual just wasn’t my style. Either he was in or he was out.

  I shook my head at him. “I’m serious. I can see right through your little ‘no expectations’ crap. I think we do need expectations. Specifically, we need the expectation that you and I will be study abroad friends and nothing more. I’m not going to be another one of your muchas chicas.”

  His jaw dropped. "Are you…friend zoning me?" he asked, his voice taking on a tone of complete disbelief.

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “That's never happened to you before, huh?"

  He stared at me, not answering my question. But the way he smirked and chuckled, I was pretty sure this situation was going to be a first for him. Even I was thinking I might be crazy for wanting to do this, but then again, it was for the best. For a number of reasons. Chandler liked things simple, that much I’d gathered. I was nothing but complications.

  “You know, you’re right,” he finally answered.

  “I am?” I asked, surprised. I watched his face for signs of deception or mockery at my suggestion. To his credit, he actually seemed to be considering my words with thought.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “And to be honest, I’ve screwed up so many friendships already in the first couple of months here with girls; I think this pact has merit. That way, we can go out, and we don’t have to worry about any awkward romantic tension between us. Have real conversations and just have fun.”

  I scrunched my face up at him. For as cocky of a guy as he was, I thought he’d just try to prove me wrong for no reason like Scott always had, just to be contradictory. “That’s rather ominous—just how many girls have you screwed up friendships with by screwing them?”

  He shook his head. “Enough to know that this is a good idea. I’ve had a great time tonight, just hanging out, and you like dancing as much as I do. I’d like to be able to get to know you more without, you know, sex hanging over us.”

  I focused my gaze for a moment and sort of stared at the water glasses on the bar. That had been too easy. I looked at the sexy beast in front of me. He was so relaxed and agreeable. I was getting what I wanted, which had been the point and yet, now I was not entirely happy about it. He drained the rest of his water as I watched him like a weirdo. Fascinated by the way his throat worked, his strong profile, the way the muscles moved under his olive skin. How his basic man uniform of jeans and a short-sleeved tee fit his lean body. And those eyelashes—I knew women who would kill for them.

  “All right,” I finally said, trying to distract myself. “Let’s shake on it.”

  He held out his hand before I could. “And besides, we're host-siblings anyway. We can't hook up. That'd be way weird."

  “Yeah. Way weird,” I parroted. I couldn’t tell if he was just making fun of me again, going along with my idea as a sort of reverse psychology, or if he really did want to be friends but we shook hands.

  "Seal it with blood," he belted.

  "With blood?" I asked, dryly.

  "Just kidding." He winked.

  "You, Chandler Spiros, are officially friendzoned."

  “Likewise.” He finished off his water, glancing around the floor and the other dancers.

  I took a drink of my own water, hoping that’d cool me off. I still wasn’t entirely sure why he went along with my crazy pact. Maybe he didn’t find me that fuckable, and I was easy to resist? That possibility brought me down a notch, especially after my farewell to Scott.

  However, I told myself that right now, I needed to be focused on my studies and living in a foreign country, and getting the full experience. The last thing I needed was an incredibly sexy, six foot three distraction who slept on the other side of the wall, not even three feet from me.

  Chandler broke up my thoughts, holding his hand out to me. “You want to get back on the dance floor and keep it going?”

  I stared at his hand, then took it. Somehow, his touch felt different. Better, and wrong, too. I plastered on a smile. “Abso-fucking-lutely. Amigo.”

  Seven

  Chandler

  “More wine, hijo?” Doña Maria had called me son since day one of my arrival in Barcelona three months ago, and I didn’t hate it. Especially when she was offering me more wine, which she often did. She was in her late thirties, single, and worked in an office. She had a few odd strands of grey appeared within her mostly black mane that she didn’t bother dying and still had it going on.

  “Claro, Mamá,” I answered, handing my glass to her. I mean, more wine, is that even a question? Especially on Wednesday night—which was telenovela night.

  Since it was always my early practice day for basketball, we caught the new episode of Victorinos at 8 p.m. without fail. It had kind of been our little thing.

  Maria settled back in her spot on the other side of the couch and jarred me out of my thoughts. I glanced at the TV, seeing the show had already started.

  Surprisingly, I’d actually learned a lot of Spanish watching telenovelas and Doña Maria correcting me. It was good practice for me and I was participating in Spanish culture: there was nothing manlier than hanging out with your mother. Besides, Doña Maria’s wine rack had been piling up for what must have been years before I arrived in January, so I’d made it my personal mission to put a dent in it before I left in June.

  “Salud.” I smiled her way before we clinked glasses. This week’s episode of Victorinos was just beginning, so we were getting caught up on the backstory from last week. Basically, there were three different guys, all named Victorino, and every episode was about how their lives intertwined in ways they couldn’t even see or notice, kind of like Crash or something, but more corny.

  I knew the backstory of Victorinos in and out. Once you got into it, it got addicting. By now, I was a bonafide expert on this show.

  The first scene began with Victorino number one and his girlfriend, Amelia.

  “Mira!” Doña Maria pointed out. “Es Amelia. Amelita.”

  Holy fucking shit, she was right. Victorino number one’s girlfriend bore a shocking resemblance to Amy. Or Amelita—little Amy—as Doña Maria liked to say.

  Fucking A. I’d spent the entire day—from classes to practice—trying not to think of Amy’s sexy self after dancing into the wee hours last night. Yet, somehow, she’d found her way into my consciousness again.

  “Amy es muy bonita,” Maria said again, using Amy’s English name, probably to make sure I understood because I hadn’t replied.

  I glanced over at Doña Maria and nodded in agreement to show her that yes, I got it, and yes, Amy was fucking gorgeous—the real Amy. And guess who has two thumbs and agreed to be ‘just friends’ with her? This guy.

  The “pact” was a silly, drunken idea. Yet I’d gone along with it. My logical brain kept telling me that the pact actually had some benefits.

  Wouldn’t it be nice to live with someone through June and not have everything go downhill? All my female friendships seemed to go awry as soon as we hooked up. Wouldn’t it be a good thing not to have that awkward, ‘Oh we just hooked up…now what is this exactly?’ tension in the air?

  Score: Brain, 1; Penis, 0.

  See? In spite of my general ludicrousness, I can reason when I have to.

  Of course, my cock was telling me something else entirely.

  Beautiful…girl…must…pursue her, he said. It was like that Seinfeld episode where Jerry’s penis plays chess against his brain.

  I had seen Amy naked for God’s sake! She’d had no clue the curtain was transparent and the floral pattern over it hid very little to my imagination. I knew exactly what she was working with. Or, better yet, I knew what I would be working with when I worked her. Since our shower encounter, getting her voluptuous figure out of my brain had been damn near impossible. She was forever firmly placed in my favorite spank bank memories of all time. She went straight to the Chandler Spiros spank bank Hall of Fame.

  All day, I’d been figh
ting random boners that continued popping up when Amy popped in my head. I imagined working my fingers from her calves, up to those luscious thighs of hers and beyond. And honestly, who could blame me? It was hard not to get hard thinking about Amy’s lush, curvy figure, her thick, long brown hair, but especially those eyes. There was something about them that just hypnotized me. Yes, Chandler, fuck me, they said. I wondered how those beautiful brown eyes would look as they fluttered while I went down on her. And I didn’t care if that made me a creep. Any man with a pulse would be thinking the same thing when they saw Amy. I guaran-fucking-teed it.

  Score: Brain, 1; Penis, 1.

  Unfortunately for my brain, the tie-breakers always went to my cock. I had to have Amy, and I knew it.

  That’s just how I functioned, always have. So she wanted to become a challenge for me? She wanted to put me in the friend zone and make me agree to some ridiculous agreement?

  Chandler Spiros gets put in the fuck zone, not the friend zone.

  Amy could talk about the friend zone all she wanted. Her words were empty when I saw how badly her body shook, and her lips quivered in my presence. The instant I saw her, I knew I would have her. This pact of ours would soon be dust.

  A thought gnawed on me though. I’d already concluded that she was one of those girls that had no clue she was hot, which made her even hotter. There was a subtle difference between girls who knew and those that didn’t. It made everything they said and did that much more alluring and effortless because they weren’t trying to attract you, then catch you. I specifically went after girls who weren’t like Amy on purpose. Those girls knew where we stood at all times. No feelings had to be hurt, just a good time for a little while and then move on our separate ways.

  Thing with Amy was that I’d actually liked just being around her. Like going out dancing, and the fact that she had absolutely no filter. I wasn’t quite sure what kept me so focused on her. Not just as a challenge for the sake of a challenge because I definitely wanted to hook up—but I also wanted something else from her. I just wasn’t sure what exactly and I couldn’t get her out of my head.