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I’m an introvert who prefers books to boys and written punch lines to lines to the rum-spiked punch bowl.
And now I’m going to show him what my ex never got to see, all of me, for the first time.
*Salsa Stalker is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with an HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.
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I wipe my face with a clean towel, and then toss it into the laundry hamper in the corner, never taking my eyes off the front window.
I know the time without looking at the clock, and it’s not because my group salsa class just ended here in Havana, Cuba.
It’s time for her to walk by.
Harper Hall, whose mother is half American and half British and her father half Canadian and half Australian.
Talk about one hell of a combination.
But the only combination I’ve been able to think about since I laid eyes on her is me and her. Us. Together.
She might not even know me, know who I am, or have even stopped by to say one damn word to me, but none of that was important right now.
What was, was that she would be getting out of class soon, and walking by my salsa studio, just as she did every day at exactly five minutes after five.
But she’s never looked in. Never seen the intensity in my eyes as I watch her, look through her, and maybe even pushed my hips forward in the standard macho way that Cuban men are known for.
We don’t play around down here. When we see a woman we want, we go all in. There’s none of this politically correct bullshit I hear about in Western countries. We celebrate the different dynamics between the male and female sexes, and when we see a woman we want, sex is always on our minds.
At least that’s what I’ve been told.
I though there was something wrong with me all these years, but now I know that it wasn’t that there was ever anything wrong with me, it was just that I hadn’t laid eyes on the one yet.
And once I did everything made sense. I had foreign and local women lining up for blocks to take my class, but none of them ever did it for me. And now I know why. There was a bigger plan for me. A plan I didn’t know about, and I’m sure she didn’t either.
And now I’ve got a plan of my own. Make her mine.
I move closer to the door. I’m not about to let another day go by without stopping this girl and telling her who she belongs to. And yes…she belongs to me, without question. I claimed her the moment I saw her, and the whole block knows not to talk to her, let alone look at her, whistle at her or even so much as fucking think about her.
After seeing the logo on her bag I knew she was here researching Cuban history at the local college. That means she could be here a week, a semester, or any random length of time.
Well, I’ve got news for her today. She’s not leaving. She belongs here, with me. And just like the way masculinity and femininity are celebrated here, so is the result of what happens when the right man and woman get together.
Children. Babies. Family.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Put one baby after another inside that sexy stomach of hers until we’ve got a family big enough to field an entire football team.
Eleven children. Yeah, that’s the minimum amount of kids she’s going to bear for me.
But just as I take that first step toward the door, two students, women of course, grab me by each of my arms.
I turn, snarling at them. “Not today, ladies,” I say with my thick accent…but damn, it only makes them want me more.
“Jose, can you help me with my footwork real quick,” an effeminate hipster from Brooklyn shouts out from the corner.
“Jose, do I need to learn to dance on one and two, or just on one?”
These people don’t get it, and if I don’t get a look at her today…actually, screw that. If I don’t get to speak to her today like I planned, I’m gonna be pissed beyond belief.
“Not now,” I yell. “Just give me a minute.”
I don’t care if they’re paying customers or not. What I want with her money can’t buy, and that’s more important than anything. Real, raw emotions. The way she makes me feel so damn alive, in a country already known for its liveliness.
I turn, just as the girls are releasing my arms, and I catch her passing by the very last part of the window.
I run, jerk the door open and yell at the vintage car which is operating as a taxi…and more importantly which is pulling away, with her inside it.
I stomp my foot three times hard, angrier than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
“Oooh! What dance step is that?” the hipster asks, his arms clinging to the door as he leans out into the street, watching me watching her drive off.
“That’s get your ass back inside, cleaned up, and out of my studio,” I growl.