Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ELEVEN
INTERIOR— FILTHY REALI-TEA STUDIO—DAY
NICK: I don’t know, Sam, the picture feels a little forced.
SAM: She’s a stunner, though. And that dress? An absolute slay.
NICK: Yeah, you’re right. And I guess it’s the timing of it all that’s forced. But hey, at least we’ve gotten confirmation. Rich Daddy has packed his things and returned home.
SAM: Unless he chartered a private jet to snap a picture and is planning to fly right back to Miami. You know how much I hate celebs who do that. If my carbon footprint matters, why shouldn’t theirs, huh?
NICK: Amen. Although word on the street is that Andrew Underwood is there to stay. Our little birdies managed to narrow the suitable properties available to rent in the area to three. We made some calls and one of them won’t be back on the market for a long while. And before you ask: I’m talking long-long, not just a few weeks. This smells like wedding stuff if you ask me, yum. So we shall keep an eye on that, but until then… we’ve got plenty to discuss.
SAM: Oh?
NICK: Oh indeed. Because we’ve fi-nal-ly put together a TIMELINE. (chuckles) Oops, sorry. That came out a little loud.
SAM: You’re forgiven. Now gimme. Are we talking about THE timeline? Of the exes? The infamous list of grooms that never were? The hearts that were smashed and stomped?
NICK: (laughs) You sound like an Olivia Rodrigo song. And I love that, because yes. Yes, we are. (clears throat) Okay, so first came Shawn—and before you point it out, no, he wasn’t a match. There’s a Ricky, too, just like in the Ariana Grande song.
SAM: Damn. I do love that song. (sings: Thank you, next) Although I’m not thankful for my exes. Neither is Small-Town Heiress, probs. Now, focus. Shawn?
NICK: I always loved your voice. (chuckles) Right. So, Shawn. Nothing special. Normal guy. Cute. Coffee barista, which we love. Runs a roaster. Still lives in North Carolina. They were young. Source said the engagement lasted throughout freshman year of college. Didn’t make it to senior year.
SAM: I think it’s a reasonable run. I couldn’t see myself getting married so young.
NICK: You’re in your midtwenties, Sam.
SAM: Exactly. And do you see a hubby by my side? So, next?
NICK: (short-lived sigh) Okay. Here things start getting interesting… Number two is Greg. Happened between two and three years after Shawn. Former yoga instructor. And I say former because apparently—and brace yourself—he was so absolutely devastated after the breakup—or well, being left at the altar, I should say—that he fled. Not the place. Or the state. The country.
SAM: Stop.
NICK: I’m serious. (chuckles) He’s in Thailand now. And he runs a retreat. We’ve checked and it exists. These are facts.
SAM: Oh my God. You’re telling me the guy went full Eat, Pray, Love ? I… (huffs with disbelief) This is amazing. Addictive. I want more.
NICK: Ricky. That’s number three. And boy, is he a good number three.
SAM: (laughs) What does that even mean, and why are you making that face?
NICK: Because he’s a professional athlete, duh.
SAM: STOP. WH—
NICK: (clicks tongue) Don’t get too excited. It’s not football. Or hockey. It’s soccer. But the big leagues, MLS, I think it’s called. Last name is Richardson, for those who want to google him. (lowers voice) That means that you totally should.
SAM: (pause) Dang. He’s… whoa. He’s hot. Reminds me of like a European version of Joe Burrow? Does that make sense? Doesn’t matter, I’m switching to soccer. Officially a soccer girlie. How could she leave this? Wait—important question: Are soccer wives considered WAGs?
NICK: I think they might be the OG WAGs. And I would have definitely put a ring on that, too. Something must have been amiss. Our source told us the engagement was fast and short. Who knows. Doesn’t matter anyway, result was the same.
SAM: No, but seriously. Ricky Richardson, I’ll marry you with paper rings. Unless… Do we not have any dirt on them? It’s hard to believe that she’ll run without them doing anything. I’m a girls’ girl and I need to point that out.
NICK: You always do point it out, Sam. But before tackling that, let’s touch base on Duncan. Aguirre. He’s number four, and the timeline places him a little less than two years ago. So recent. He’s a politician. (laughs with disbelief) Who has gone all quiet on us after being so chatty the first time we reached out. He’s running for senator in South Carolina, and that’s probably why. This story has blown up, after all.
SAM: (snaps fingers three times) Yes, it has.
NICK: His office keeps declining any comment, but we’ll persist. Hey Duncan? If you’re listening, pick up the phone. Answer our DMs. We know you want to. (pause) Until that happens… You can tell us in the comments what you thought of this ep in The Underwood Affair. Because girlie has surely been busy collecting them like Pokémon. (chuckles) Reminds me of a certain pop singer and songwriter I shall not bring into this because I’d like to avoid getting canceled.
SAM: Hey. No TS slander, you know the rules.
NICK: And if anyone’s noticing, we’ve skipped number five. That’s because we’re saving the best for last.
“Hypothetically … What do you think is our aesthetic?”
Matthew considered my question. “That depends.”
I shot him a bland look over the dozens of papers, trays of snacks, and empty glasses covering my kitchen table. “On what?”
“On how hypothetical the hypothetical aesthetic is.”
I pondered his answer while I cringed at the mess. Ugh, I’d tried so badly to channel Adalyn. I even had color-coded binders and plastic sleeves with sticky labels. It wasn’t working. “Are you deflecting so you don’t need to ask me what an aesthetic is?”
“Give me a little credit,” he said before popping a kale chip into his mouth. “I’m a little better than weaponized incompetence, snuggle bear.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, feigning that I wasn’t impressed by his answer. Or distracted by his basic white T-shirt, the short sleeves slightly rolled up mid-bicep. “That’s the worst one yet. We haven’t even snuggled. I could be horrible at it for all you know.”
Something sparked in his eyes. I wondered if he’d ask me to show him. It would—technically—be within the rules. And a part of me I was struggling to keep quiet was very aware of that.
“Our aesthetic should reflect who we are as a couple,” he continued.
I considered that, pretending once again I didn’t love that answer. For someone who had organized so many weddings and been in this exact position so many times, none of the men who had preceded Matthew had ever given me an answer like that. “That’s correct,” I conceded. “And that’s probably why I’m struggling with it. I can’t envision something that doesn’t exactly exist.”
His fingers brought an apricot slice to his mouth. “Walk me through your thought process,” Matthew instructed, before chewing on it. A little too hard. “Dump it all on me. And don’t leave whatever has you frowning like that out. I want every messy thought.”
I snorted. “You don’t know what you’re asking. Have you met me?”
“I have.” He crunched on a new chunk of fruit. “And I know what I’m asking.”
The determination in his voice made me pause. Hesitate. I knew he was trying to help, and I knew I had asked him. But… Why was he looking so sullen all of a sudden? Was this about what they’d said about me on the last episode of Filthy Reali-Tea ? The idea made me a little more than uneasy. They hadn’t talked about Matthew, but they had about me. In detail.
I smiled at him. “My, my, it’s getting late and you must be about done with all of this.” I stacked some of the sleeves in a neat pile. “I’ll move this to my room and just pick whatever. Andrew’s welcome dinner doesn’t need to match the wedding aesthetic anyway, like Bobbi is preaching. Mostly, because there is no wedding.” I collected some of the labels and set them in a pile too. “It’d be ridiculous to match anything to it. I just went into autopilot and forgot for a second.” I made my smile even wider. “I can handle Andrew’s party on my own.”
Matthew occupied himself with the task of unearthing a tray with roasted nuts that had been buried in the mess. “I know you can,” he said nonchalantly, placing the nuts in front of him and falling back on the chair. “But you won’t.”
“I won’t… what exactly?”
“Handle it yourself,” he pointed out. Simply. “You won’t handle shit on your own. We will. And we’re finding an aesthetic if that’s what you need.”
“I’m used to it,” I countered, eyes narrowing. “I do it all the time. I’m the mayor of town. A business owner. I run multiple activities. I’ve… organized a few of these.” I swallowed. “It’s fine. And you can go.”
He threw a couple nuts into his mouth. “I have full confidence in your skills to handle anything that comes your way.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll—”
“You’re my fiancée,” Matthew said.
My stomach dropped. Heart skipped.
Matthew’s eyes met mine, as if daring me to negate that. “There’s a ring on your finger. I don’t care about the specifics, for all practical purposes, it means we’re a team. We handle shit together. I don’t care if you can do it on your own. You shouldn’t have to.”
I… wasn’t used to this. Usually, people let me take the issue off their hands. And yes, that had included my exes. I didn’t resent them for it, I’d been glad to handle things. It was something I did well. It just… was a lot sometimes.
“Okay,” I let out with a breath. “Thank you. We’ll settle on a wedding aesthetic so Andrew’s party can match it, Snack Man. Together. Even when there’s no need. But don’t say I didn’t try to save you from this. Your window to escape is now closed.”
Matthew switched back to the kale chips, popping one into his mouth with a smile. “You love that I’m munching away at your food. I can see it in your face.”
I did.
“So…” I started. “I usually make a list of favorite things. To pick an aesthetic. It’s what represents a couple best.” My determination to proceed with this wavered, but I persisted. “Like for example: Shawn was obsessed with 1920s jazz, so we planned a vintage ceremony and a very laid-back cocktail party accompanied by the Hilly Jazzers, who were a little overrated but very popular back then, and it took me a great deal of bribing to book them on the wedding anniversary of the lead singer.”
Matthew kept popping in chips, not saying a thing.
“The gig was canceled, as you know. And I sent the singer a voucher for a romantic night at a spa for the trouble.”
The crunching came to a stop. “And what about that wedding fit your aesthetic? I think we should focus on that.”
“Everything, duh. My dress was beautiful. It was a very pale shade of gold, and so simple and elegant I could still wear it if I wanted to.”
Matthew considered that for a moment. “What about your wedding to Greg, then?” Some measure of surprise must have shown on my face, because Matthew sighed. “I can remember a handful of names after hearing them a couple times. What details about that wedding were yours?”
Yes, he could. The whole country could now. “It was woodland wonderland. Towering trees, mossy detailing. It was important that we were connected to the earth, so we went with an outdoor ceremony in the woods. And Greg goes by Astro now. Ever since he became a yogi master.”
“I want to hear about you now.”
“You’re hearing about me,” I countered. “I’m telling you about me right now. My previous aesthetics.”
“You’re really not.” He patted his hands over his jeans, as if he was done snacking and it was time to get down to business. “You’re telling me about them. I want to hear about you. Likes, dislikes, passions, fears, what makes you smile, and what makes you sad. Then I’ll do the same. That’s what we should know about each other, and that’s what we should be focusing on if we want to find an aesthetic. And we’re going to. Tonight.”
I pursed my lips. Trying not to give him anything. Not the big smile tugging at my mouth, or the happy laugh tickling my throat. Because, damn. The man was cute. And sweet. And that determination was unexpectedly hot.
“Wildflowers,” I announced. “They make me smile. They grow free. They’re beauty and defiance, and the fact that no matter what goes on in the world, they still continue to bloom, makes me happy.”
He gave one solemn nod. “Favorite one?”
“Pinkshell azaleas or blue thimbles. But I’m not picky. I love them all, and I won’t normally pluck them unless they’re already starting to wither.”
When Matthew spoke, his voice sounded twice as low. Intimate. “A fear?”
“Waterfalls,” I answered easily. “It’s called katarraktiphobia, if you’re wondering.” A shiver ran down my arms. “I’d rather jump into the open ocean and venture being eaten by a shark than walk under one.”
“It’s clowns for me,” Matthew offered. “They terrify me.”
A small smile touched my lips. “They can be very scary.”
“What makes you sad, Josie?”
“Saying goodbye,” I said. “Throwing away leftover cake. Lonely people. Broken things shoved aside.”
There was a strange pause, then something in the brown of his eyes changed. “Why didn’t you tell me that it was your first time meeting Andrew?”
“I do recall sending an SOS text.”
“Josie.”
I sighed, and all the questions I hadn’t asked left me with the exhale. “Why are you not freaking out over this? Page Nine posted our picture, that podcast is apparently saving you for last—whatever that means. Are you not scared? What is your family saying? Are they scared?”
“Would me worrying about any of that change anything? Would my family knowing what we’re doing change a thing?”
His answer made me sad. For many different reasons I didn’t want to explain. So I didn’t speak.
“You should have told me, Josie,” he said. “About Andrew.”
I shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change anything either, now, does it?”
“Andrew and I have never gotten along,” Matthew told me, that easy and intimate atmosphere around us wilting. “I shouldn’t say this, not again, but I just don’t trust him. That’s not going to change, even if I step back while you decide whether you want to give him a chance.”
He talked like it was my decision to make. Or like I was his to protect. But were any of those things true? The truth was that my relationship with my father hung by a thread, and I didn’t think Matthew could do more than he already did.
“I’m done talking about myself,” I said. “I’m also done with me being the topic of conversation. I want to hear about Matthew Flanagan.” A sigh escaped me. “At least before everyone else does first. Let’s start with exes. Past relationships? You know all of mine. So what should I know?”
“I’ve had fun,” he answered. “Fucked around. Got my heart broken a couple times. Nothing worth discussing, really. I made work a priority during the last years.”
Fucked around. He said it so coarsely, as if the word didn’t trigger images he’d planted there during those moments we’d shared in the supply closet at Josie’s. “You had a ring, though,” I observed, my gaze falling on my hand. I moved my fingers and watched the stone catch the light. I really loved when that happened. “That usually means something.”
“A man can coexist with jewelry without imploding,” he said, his hand suddenly there. With mine. On the table. His fingers touched the ornamented band. “So how do you want to play this out, then?”
My gaze lifted, falling back on him. “What do you mean how ?”
“Your exes.” Matthew’s fingers skimmed over my skin now, his eyes still cast down. “You wanted to talk about me. So am I on good terms with the idea of them, or do I want to rip their heads off?”
My mouth parted in surprise. Or maybe it was the way the pad of his thumb was still playing around with the ring, my finger, my hand, sending waves of goose bumps up and down my arms. “I don’t know, Matthew. Are you the jealous, possessive type?”
“Yes.” His brows met in thought. “I can be. But I’m easily swayed to be nice and proper.” He interlaced our fingers, and my heart tripped, tumbling down. “Do you have me wrapped around your pinky, Josie?”
The skin under my blouse flushed. Belly. Back. Arms. It all lit up as a red-hot sensation climbed up my wrist and traveled all the way to the tips of my ears.
We were holding hands.
Which we already had. Many times. Too often, for what we were, perhaps. But we could touch. Touching was part of the rules. Touching was fine. “Yes.” I swallowed. “You’re wrapped around my pinky all right. Tangled up in there like a—”
Matthew moved, bringing our joined hands down, under my chair. He pulled at it—with me on it—and dragged it all the way to his side in one swift motion. “Like a what,” he said, his words now falling on my temple.
My lips fell open wordlessly, the awareness—the sudden closeness of his body, in that basic white tee that didn’t have any business looking as good as it did on him—robbing me of the capability of speech for an instant. “Like…” I finally managed to say, my voice rocky and bouncy and all wrong. “Like grandma’s yarn?”
Matthew chuckled, a smile splitting that serious face he’d been sporting for most of the night. As if he hadn’t been able to stop it and, ugh. It was such a handsome smile, and it was so devastatingly close, so within my reach that I had to physically stop myself from reaching out and feeling those creases that weren’t quite dimples with the tips of my fingers. I wondered how soft his lips were. How they would feel against mine.
A record scratched in my head.
Against mine.
Against mine?
Nope. No, no, no. Absolutely not, Josie.
“We should go back to… the checklist,” I told him, realizing my hand was still in his grasp. Resting on the colorful chair cushion, right beside my ass. While I’d been thinking of his mouth. On mine. I wrenched my hand from his hold, setting it back on the table. “There’s so much to do.” I fumbled with my phone, opening and closing apps until I found the right one. I made a show out of scrolling down and busying myself with all the work we were neglecting by playing handsies.
“Here.” I swallowed. “Let’s do something easy. I wrote down some housekeeping stuff I came up with while I listened to that god-awful podcast. Things I don’t know or things that should be done to cover all fronts.” My finger tapped my Notes app open. “All right, what’s your middle name?”
The man whose chair was still solidly planted right by mine didn’t move an inch when he said, “Eugene.”
Something in my chest immediately thawed. Dear God. “Like Flynn Rider? From Tangled ?”
Matthew’s chuckle matched the feeling inside me. “Exactly like that.”
“That’s…” Ugh. I couldn’t be going all squishy like this. “Great. Amazing middle name. Please congratulate your parents on my behalf. Oh wait. What are your parents’ names? I think I should know that. Your sisters’, too, besides Tay.”
“Patrick and Pam,” he answered simply. Curtly. Straight to the point. “Dad would have you calling him Paddy, though. And my sisters are Taylor—or Tay, who’s the youngest—and Eve. They’re constantly giving me shit, you’d love them.”
I jotted that down in my notes, just to keep my mind from wandering and picturing stuff like meeting Matthew’s family, or joking with his dad about those obvious Irish roots, or sitting down with them for Thanksgiving, or deciding where to spend Christmas. Boston or Green Oak? Should we have Paddy and Pam come visit during the spring? It’s my favorite time of the year and they’d love it here. I—
I was being so silly.
No wedding, but we stay friends.
“Emergency contact,” I murmured. Then said a little louder. “Mine has always been Grandpa Moe. But do you think we should change them? I think we should change them. Let’s change them.”
“Josie—” Matthew started.
“Okay, done!” I squealed. I wasn’t proud of how my voice sounded. “You’re set to my emergency contact. It makes sense. What if someone sneaks into our phones and checks? They could start asking questions. So better safe than sorry.”
“Sweetheart,” Matthew said, sounding so sweet, so unaware of my current state, that I wondered if I wasn’t that bad of a liar after all. “I don’t think anyone’s going to check.”
“So we’re back to the sweetheart stuff,” I murmured. And when he didn’t comment, I reached for his phone, which had been somewhere to the right. I held it out to him. “It’d make me feel better if you set me as your emergency contact too. I promise I’ll be very respectful of the Flanagan SOS Code and memorize all the rules you have for it.”
Matthew breathed out a laugh that hit me right on the cheek. My belly too. “One, zero, two, seven, zero, four.”
“What’s that?”
“My passcode,” he explained nonchalantly. “Change it. If it’s going to make you feel better, I won’t stand in the way.”
“You’re giving me your passcode. Why?”
“You’re my fiancée,” he pointed out. Again. And one more time, my heart skipped a crazy, stupid beat. “And my emergency contact.”
“What if I find something on here?” I said, reluctantly entering the code and tapping on his contacts. “Something like bad mirror selfies, or an embarrassing playlist or worse, nudes from someone who— You have me as Josephine Moore ?”
“I don’t keep nudes from women I’m not seeing,” he stated.
And my restraint broke. I looked at him then. “Which means you’ve gotten them.” My cheeks flushed with my words, but I ignored it. I wasn’t shy or prudish, I never was. It just seemed like Matthew managed to alter my brain chemistry in a way I was unprepared for. “Which is totally fine.”
“It also usually means I’ve sent them,” he offered.
My whole body flushed. Properly this time. “Sure,” I breathed out. “I mean, who hasn’t?” I hadn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. “I have plenty of experience under my belt. And I’ve had very physical relationships, you know?”
Matthew’s expression hardened and there was a moment there. Something that passed between us. Some glint in the brown of his eyes that I couldn’t quite understand. Was he wondering about that? Was he thinking of the nudes I never sent? Was his mind going through my exes, wondering who I was talking about? It had been Ricky.
“I’m sure you have,” he finally said.
I cleared my throat, glancing down at the phone. “You only save your banker under their full name. Or your accountant. I can’t be Josephine Moore.” There was an underlying disappointment that I ignored too. “I had you as Adalyn’s former BFF, because I became her new best friend when she met me. Then changed it to… something else.”
If Matthew was interested in knowing that, he didn’t say. I was glad, because I didn’t think he’d like that he was Mattsie-Boo on my phone. I also wanted to put off him seeing the picture that would light up my screen if he called me.
It was the brush of his fingers against mine that made me notice that he was taking his phone from my grasp. One-handed, he tapped at it. Then returned it to me.
My contact was open on the screen.
He’d changed it to Baby Blue.
With a butterfly emoji.
And I… Ah shit. This was too much. Because I shouldn’t feel the way I did over it, but I did, and I absolutely loved it. “Because of my blue eyes?” I asked, making every emotion inside me obvious in my voice.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
“What do you mean?”
His voice grew closer, as if he was leaning forward. “It’s what I called you. In my head. That night.”
All that happy bubbling dwindled. “When you thought I was some strange woman in a robe covered in jam?”
A gulp of air left the man by my side. “Hey. Look at me, please.”
I didn’t want to, but I’d also been putting this man through the wringer since that night, so the least I could do was turn if he asked. “Yes?”
Brown eyes bore into mine through the lenses of that pair of glasses I was growing so obsessed with. And then he said, serious, concerned, “Why are you disappointed? That I couldn’t tell it was you right away?”
My heart halted for a second. I had not expected that. Not the direct question or him noticing what I had felt that night. “The answer to that makes me somewhat of a monster,” I whispered. “You won’t like it.”
“Try me.”
“It made me a little sad,” I let out with a sigh. “You, not being able to tell it was me right away. But also realizing that you were helping a stranger. I love that you’re kind and good and just… a great man.” My voice almost left me then. “But a part of me wished you’d be helping me, Josie, not just anyone. That’s it.”
Matthew was taken aback by my answer for a long moment. So long I was sure I’d just ruined things I wasn’t supposed to ruin. But then he moved. Body turning in his chair, he scooted forward, close, closer, until his legs sandwiched mine. His eyes did that thing, bouncing around my face until setting camp on mine. When he spoke, his voice was low, and his words sounded like a confession. Just like mine. “Maybe I would help any stranger. But it’s you I’m going this far for. It’s you. Josie.”
The tension that had just taken shape thickened, filling the space around us.
It’s you.
Josie.
My mind was stuck. My chest filling with… things. Stuff that had nothing to do with being relieved or glad to have him by my side. Stuff that shouldn’t be there. Not this fast and certainly not when we were the main characters in a PR hoax I’d asked him to be a part of. “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” I lied. “It’s not important now.” More lies. “It wasn’t like I was dying to meet you or anything.”
“It’d be so easy to prove you wrong.”
His answer surprised me. It also excited me. Irked me. Defied me. I made no sense. We didn’t. “There’s nothing to prove wrong.”
“You thought about me,” Matthew pressed. Determined. His gaze dipped down, I didn’t know where—mouth, chin, neck, a stain on my blouse, I had no idea. But when it returned, there was a challenge in the glint of his eyes. “Before I got here, to Green Oak. You’d given me shit in the group chat, or whenever you were around when I called Adalyn, but you liked me.”
I snorted, but Matthew’s body moved. His legs pushed forward, my knees almost coming in contact with his crotch, and his hands braced on both sides of my seat, caging me. My cheeks flamed, rivers of awareness flowing down my body. “I like everyone,” I whispered. “Ask anyone in town.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up in a smile that should have sent me running for the hills. “Yet I’m the one sitting here.”
My first impulse was to argue. I hadn’t pulled Matthew into this arrangement out of some selfish plot to get him naked. But I knew he knew that. He was baiting me, he was trying to prove a point only because I refused to admit it. Because I’d opened up, taken a step outside my cocoon of safety, and then gone right back into it. But didn’t he understand? How terrifying it was for me to peek my head out? Especially when it was him on the other side. Especially when he saw so much, knew so much, was so deep into the tangle I was. Especially when he was a little right.
Thing was, every step I walked forward could be run right back. I was excellent at that.
“So what if you are?” I told him, raising my hands and watching them cross the space between our chests. Two could play this game, and he should have known that. Softly, I placed my palms on his shoulders. Then dragged them down his arms, slowly, deliberately, my fingernails grazing first the fabric, then his skin, making him shudder under them. “Maybe I wanted you to help me. But I would have asked any stranger walking by.” My tongue peeked out, wetting my bottom lip. “Are you not familiar with my track record?”
Matthew’s brows came down in thought, but his gaze was unfocused, distracted. “Stop talking about yourself like that.”
I let my fingers slip inside his sleeves, then dragged my hands up, basking in the way Matthew’s breath caught. “Like what?”
“Like you’re some selfish monster,” he said, voice deep and rocky. My determination wobbled, and Matthew took the chance. His hands moved from their spot on the chair to my sides. He pulled my body closer. Our noses almost brushed. “I know what you’re doing.”
My heart raced, the closeness of his face, our bodies, too much too soon and too little all at once. “And what is that?”
“Distracting me,” he said. “Hiding.” And in response, in rebellion, my hands moved against his skin, rounding his arms, holding on to him, as if he was going to stand up and leave now that he’d called me out. The quality of his gaze changed, the sharpness softening. “But that’s all right, isn’t it?” he whispered, voice tender, the hands at my waist trailing up gently. As if he was soothing me. “We’ll hide behind your rules. I won’t break any until you ask me.”
That deafening flutter in my belly rioted at his words. Ask him? My chest heaved. The feel of his skin under my hands, the feeling of him filling the space, the weight of his words, overwhelming me. I—
A throat cleared.
We both froze.
“Your hands cold, Josie?” Grandpa Moe grumbled. “Because you can wear mittens, if that’s the case. You don’t need to probe him like you’re searching for lice.”
I snatched my hands back with a sigh. Then turned to look at Grandpa. He was standing under the doorframe, in a robe, holding an empty bottle of rosé. “Lice?” I deadpanned. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” he answered, before shooting Matthew a warning glance. Matthew’s hands fell off my waist. “Smart choice, kiddo.”
Matthew nodded his head, but not with shame or reluctance. “I’ll be better next time, sir.”
Both Grandpa and I arched our brows, the same two words causing the same reaction for vastly different reasons. Next time. As if me sitting on a chair in the cradle of his legs while having my hands all over him would happen again.
“You walked here?” Grandpa asked Matthew. He nodded. “I’ll drive you home, then. If you’re done with whatever you were doing.” He shot me a pointed glance. “I’m done with my show and my rosé doesn’t have any alcohol in it anyway. She’s been sneaking me fizzy pink watered-down juice.”
“Gee,” I let out. “And here I thought the fact you run through it like we have it on tap meant you liked it.”
Matthew stood up, his body unfolding before me, sidetracking me. I leaned my head back to look at him, finding his eyes on me.
“We wouldn’t have an aesthetic,” he announced. “Beautiful things shouldn’t be boxed. It eventually dims their light.”
My lips parted with a hundred questions, and in the same heartbeat, Matthew’s head dipped.
He brushed a kiss against my jaw. “I really had to,” he whispered. “In case I don’t survive the drive.”
And then he was off, joining Grandpa at the door.
I… I should have been concerned with so many things, really. Like how I’d wanted to grab his arm and stop him from leaving. How I’d wanted to ask him to kiss my cheek again. Stay a little longer. But I couldn’t. Not when I was trying to decipher what he’d just said.
Beautiful things shouldn’t be boxed. It eventually dims their light.
Had he meant me? Or us?