“Emi.” He stood, and the noise seemed to soften. “Still chasing the last song of the night?”
She pulled back, searching his eyes. “And you think that’s me?”
Emilia took Mateo’s hand. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”
Emilia spotted her friend Diego at the bar, already two mojitos in. “You won’t believe who’s here,” he said, nodding toward the corner booth.
“I’m never late for the salsa hour,” she shot back, kissing his cheek and slipping inside.
She smiled. “Always.”
He pulled her onto the floor just as the DJ switched to a slow, aching bachata—Romeo Santos, but remixed with a jazz trumpet that made it feel brand new. Mateo led, and Emilia followed, not because she couldn’t lead herself, but because with him, the conversation of movement felt like home. One turn, two, a dip that lasted a heartbeat too long.
