I'm not entirely sure how I ended up on the second-floor balcony with Mr. Carlos. One minute, I was rolling my eyes at Maya's not-so-subtle matchmaking attempts, and the next, I was following the mesmerizing path he cut through the crowd. My heels wobbled a bit with every step, but somehow, my body had decided gravity didn't apply where this man was concerned.
The cool night air hit my skin like a shock — a welcome one. It didn't do much to sober me up, but it felt good. I blinked hard, trying to steady the slight spin in my head. Then I looked up — and instantly forgot how to breathe.
Because standing there, half-shadowed by the soft amber light, was him.
Beautiful. Capital B. Full stop.
Carlos Blackwood was the kind of man who made time slow down. His tuxedo fit him too well, the white shirt crisp against tanned skin that looked unfairly smooth. His jawline could've been carved by an angel having a really good day, and those eyes — God, those eyes — they were the sharpest blue I'd ever seen. Ice, but not cold. They had warmth buried somewhere deep, like a secret only a few people had been trusted with.
And his scent.
Dear universe, his scent.
A heady mix of sandalwood, amber, and something darker — maybe leather, maybe sin — drifted through the air. It wrapped around me, sank into my skin. He smelled rich, clean, and dangerously masculine. Like confidence bottled and worn by someone who knew exactly what it did to people.
I was in trouble.
"So…" I said, leaning against the railing, mostly to steady myself. "What's your name again?"
He chuckled, and that sound — low, deep, smooth — hit me square in the chest.
"I told you already," he said, his lips curling into a smile that could probably ruin a few lives. "Weren't you listening?"
"Yeah, but tell me again," I said, taking one wobbly step closer. His cologne hit me harder this time, and it was game over. I didn't even try to hide my grin.
"Carlos," he said slowly, like he wanted me to feel every syllable. "Carlos Blackwood."
The name clicked through my fuzzy brain like a bell. "Blackwood?" I repeated, tilting my head. "As in the Blackwood Foundation?"
He nodded, a faint smirk ghosting over his lips. "That would be the one."
I blinked at him, my tipsy mind trying to keep up. "So this whole…" I gestured at the glittering ballroom behind us, "…thing is your family's event?"
He leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms. "Guilty."
I stared at him for a second, mouth slightly open. "That's… wow. Okay. So you're, like, rich rich."
"Something like that," he said with a shrug that made his suit shift just enough for me to glimpse the shape of his shoulders beneath.
My brain, already floating somewhere between champagne clouds and bad decisions, decided to let my mouth run on autopilot. "Why are you wearing gloves?" I asked suddenly, squinting at his hands.
He looked down at them, then back at me, smiling like he was a little amused by the question. "I have this thing about shaking too many hands at events. Too many germs. Too many people."
I gasped in mock offense. "So… you're a germophobe?"
He laughed, the sound soft and warm. "Not exactly, sweetheart. Just cautious."
Sweetheart.
Sweet. Heart.
That word slid down my spine like silk.
Before I could stop myself, my eyes wandered. He was removing his suit jacket — slow, casual, like it weighed nothing — and it gave me a perfect view of his arms straining against the fabric of his white dress shirt. The sleeves hugged him too perfectly, showing off the sculpted lines of his biceps and chest. A faint gold chain peeked from under his collar.
I wasn't breathing. I was staring. And then I saw it — the faintest hint of ink peeking from his cuff.
"Wait… do you have tattoos?"
He looked up at me through his lashes. "Yeah," he said, rolling one sleeve up with deliberate slowness. "A few."
"A few?" I echoed, my voice an octave higher than normal.
He peeled off one glove, revealing a strong hand with long fingers and veins that traced like lightning beneath his skin. Then he tugged the sleeve to his elbow, and there it was — a swirl of black ink wrapping his forearm in intricate patterns. Some lines looked abstract, some symbolic. There was even a faint name inked near his wrist, but I didn't dare stare too long.
"Wow," I whispered. "That's… really beautiful."
His gaze flicked to me, amused again. "You like tattoos?"
"I love them," I said quickly, smiling. "I don't have any, but I love looking at them. They tell stories."
He tilted his head slightly, watching me in a way that made my stomach twist. "Maybe you'll see the others one day," he said with a teasing wink.
Oh, I was gone. Completely gone.
I didn't even know what possessed me next — maybe the champagne, maybe his scent, maybe those eyes that wouldn't stop looking at me like I was something interesting. But I stepped closer, brushing his forearm lightly with my fingers.
"How old are you?" I asked softly.
His lips twitched. "Old enough to know better."
I laughed, biting my lip. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting," he said, his tone playful but edged with something darker. "How old are you, Hannah?"
My name sounded different when he said it — lower, smoother, almost like a secret.
"Twenty-four," I said, trying to sound composed, but the giggle that followed ruined that. "And probably drunk enough to make bad decisions."
He smiled, stepping close enough for me to feel his body heat even through the night air. "You're not making bad decisions," he said, his voice calm, confident. "Not yet."
The way he said it made my pulse race.
My gaze flicked up to meet his again. "You're Spanish, right?"
His smile deepened. "Sí," he said, his accent suddenly thicker, more intoxicating. "Mi madre es de Madrid."
"Wow," I breathed, grinning like an idiot. "That sounded… so good. Like, unfairly good."
He chuckled. "You should hear me when I'm angry."
"I'd rather hear you when you're laughing," I said before I could stop myself.
And then he did — laugh, soft and genuine — and I felt my chest tighten in the weirdest, sweetest way.
I didn't know what came over me next. Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was just him. But before I knew it, I was sliding my hands up his shoulders, feeling the firm line of muscle beneath the fabric. I tilted my head up, dragging him down a little by instinct, my heart hammering.
His breath hit my cheek — cool, minty, perfect.
"For someone who was avoiding my stare all night," he murmured, his lips close enough to send a shiver down my spine, "this is a very bold move. I'm trying so hard to be a gentleman, sweetheart… you're making it difficult."
His voice dropped an octave, smooth as velvet. I was already gone.
So I went for it. I leaned in — eyes half-shut, heart going wild — ready to finally taste the lips that had been haunting me all night.
But instead of his mouth, I felt his finger press gently against mine.
I froze.
"Why the rush, sweetheart?" he whispered, eyes gleaming. Then, without breaking eye contact, he brought that same finger to his lips and slowly sucked the tip.
My entire body went hot.
He dropped his hand, slid the glove back on, and reached up to unwind my arms from around his neck — not rough, just careful. "Get some water," he said quietly. "You'll thank me tomorrow."
And just like that, he turned and walked away, his cologne lingering in the air long after he disappeared back into the ballroom.
---
The next morning was hell.
"I can't, M. I can't even function," I groaned into my pillow. My head throbbed, my pride was shattered, and the memory of last night replayed on a humiliating loop. "He straight-up rejected my advance, Maya. Who even does that?!"
Her laughter echoed through my AirPods like evil. "Oh my god, stop, I can't breathe."
"I'm serious! I probably traumatized him. Why did I even do that? Why did I think my drunk self could handle someone like him?"
"Because he's hot," Maya said between laughs. "And you're human."
"I literally embarrassed myself in front of a billionaire," I groaned, sitting up and clutching my head. "A Blackwood, Maya! Do you know what that means? I can never show my face in that circle again!"
"It could be worse."
"How?!"
"You could've actually kissed him."
"Oh my god, stop!" I screamed, throwing a pillow across the room while she cackled.
"I'm your helping bitch, not your saving one," she teased.
"I'm never drinking again," I mumbled.
"Sure, Hannah. Until next weekend."
I flopped back against my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to smile at the memory I swore I wanted to forget — his scent, his laugh, those eyes.
The same ones that had looked right at me like I was trouble worth noticing.
And for the first time since waking up, I wasn't sure if I regretted it at all.