Chapter 2
two
Mateo
Three Months Ago | Memorial Day Weekend
Hoping to make it to the bar unnoticed, I weave between tables quickly. The white tablecloths are adorned with low taper candles and floral centerpieces. The place really is beautiful.
Tonight is my baby sister’s rehearsal dinner, and my number one goal is dodging aunts and uncles and town meddlers. I’m in no mood to deal with all the questions and assumptions. My life in Manhattan is amazing, and its distance from Peacock Springs and small-town gossip is one of many reasons why.
I hold out my rocks glass, the oversized ice cube clinking, and catch the server’s eye.
With a nod, he slides the top-shelf bottle to me.
I cringe as I examine the bottle he cracked open on my first visit to the bar.
From the look of it, I’ve polished off a good quarter of the fifteen-hundred-dollar tequila.
“Shit,” I mutter as I dig my wallet out of my pocket.
I drop a black card onto the shiny surface and tell him to charge this to me rather than the bride and groom.
His name is Ross, according to the gold tag pinned to his shirt.
Or is it Russ? It’s hard to tell from here.
The world has gone a little hazy. Either way, I ask Ross/Russ to put this on my card so that Nanay, a.k.a.
my very sweet but strict Filipino mother, does not have a heart attack the night before Stefanie and Lee’s wedding.
The last thing I need is to cause my little sister any additional headaches.
But the tequila is a must if I’m going to survive the weekend and play my part.
In the family, I’m the handsome devil without a brain who can get any girl he wants.
The man who stumbled into a high-salaried career that isn’t in healthcare—a detail that every nurse, doctor, and physician’s assistant in the room will remind me of.
Tatay, my dad, and his sisters, my titas, tease me about being one of only a couple of grandkids who don’t wear scrubs to work.
Stef doesn’t either, but they don’t give her shit since she’s in education. She’s taking care of kids’ minds.
I scoff at the phrase I’ve heard a million times.
Not one of them understands that I have a vision. I’m not as stupid as they think I am. I only have what I do because my grandparents sacrificed comfort so that my parents could have choices, which in turn allowed me to have a choice. And I’m making the most of what my American upbringing gave me.
As for the playboy part, that’s an incorrect label, though I don’t bother to correct people who want to believe it. I just refuse to settle for anything less than the best. Have you seen me in this suit? It’s called confidence, babe.
Speaking of the best, my sister’s friends are top-notch, two of whom are approaching the bar now.
My friends, unfortunately, seem to be of the fair-weather variety. Other than Liam, who’s around here somewhere with his partner.
I’m not trying to be an eavesdropper, but when I hear something like “you need to relax,” I can’t help but lean in.
“You played caretaker at the bachelorette weekend,” Delia says to Nessa, who’s a couple of inches shorter than her, even in heels. “Now let’s get you a drink. It’s your turn to let loose.”
I turn, being sure to smile in that way that makes my dimples pop, and say, “I can offer you top shelf tequila if that will sway you.”
“Yes!” Delia cries, while Nessa mutters her half-hearted acceptance.
Delia bounces on her toes and glances around the room before her eyes land on the bartender. He meets her gaze before shaking his head and returns to counting his tips.
With nobody watching the bar, Delia reaches one long arm over and grabs two glasses and the salt dish. Placing the goods before her and Nessa, she brandishes a triumphant smile.
“Hey, Matty,” Delia says. “Truth or dare?”
I smirk. “What about truth or drink?”
With a nod, she elbows Nessa, who is assessing her pointy manicure and doing her best to ignore me. Her nails look like claws. Yikes.
“Fine.” Nessa heaves out a breath, and before I know it, her lips curl up in a smirk. “Me first. How often do you wash your sheets, playboy?”
“That’s easy.” I rest one forearm on the bar and cross my ankles. “The morning after company or once a week. I’m not a heathen. My cleaner comes on Fridays.” I give a simple shrug. “Okay, Doc. My turn.”
Her nostrils flare in annoyance.
Maybe I’m sick, but the sight sends a bolt of excitement up my spine.
I love riling her up. “Where is the strangest place you’ve flicked the bean, Dr. Rabin?
” I tease, using the name of her podcast on sex and relationships.
Hosting ‘ Flicking the Bean with Dr. Rabin ’ is only one of the many hats she wears as a shrink.
She picks up her glass and downs the tequila, then narrows her eyes on me. “Have you ever sexted the wrong person?”
With a laugh, I shake my head. “No, never.”
Delia clears her throat, breaking our banter, and I turn her way. I don’t want her to pull Nessa from me just yet.
“Have you ever considered kissing Jim Kelly just to see if he’d react?”
“I’d rather kiss a peacock,” Delia says.
Nessa giggles. She actually giggles.
It’s light and airy, so unlike the harsh tone I am usually met with.
I sip and savor the way they good-naturedly tease one another and fall into another fit of laughter.
During her freshman year of high school, the little genius was in my eleventh-grade English lit class. While she was ahead of her grade, I was repeating the course. That’s when I realized that getting a rise out of her was more fun than being ignored.
I hold my smile, though in this moment, I can’t help but think about one story I can recall from that year. The one about the sad clown named Pagliacci.
Pagliacci, out of costume, goes to the doctor because he’s depressed—which I am not; I’m just not thrilled about this weekend’s events.
Anyhow, the doctor tells him to go to see the clown, Pagliacci, who is performing in town that night, suggesting that it will cheer him up. That’s when the punchline hits. He is the clown.
That’s what I do at family functions. I smile. I avoid worrying my parents. I ensure everyone else is doing okay.
Our game continues as the room thins out, going from after-party to after-the-after-party status.
“My turn,” Nessa shouts over the music, pouring a refill for us both. “Marry, kiss, or kill the bridesmaids.”
“No fair,” I tease. “Lily Long is already taken, and Delia Shane here has that weird thing going with Seth Whitter.”
The women simultaneously guffaw.
“That would be like kissing my brother. No, thanks.” Delia downs the last of her drink and claps it against the bar with a soft thud. “On that note,” she says, pointing at Nessa, then me. “I’m out. Good night, kids. Drink water and get some rest. We have makeup and golf bright and early tomorrow.”
“Looks like you’re going to have to marry, kiss, and kill me, Matty,” Nessa teases, her face split in a wide smile.
In that moment, something inside me shifts. I don’t know about marriage, but yeah, I’m pretty sure I’d like to kiss her, even if she would kill me for it.
She licks at the salt on the rim of her glass, then sips her tequila, the move far sexier than she means for it to be, I’m sure.
I grab her stool and yank it closer to mine. “Last question. Ever see Cruel Intentions ?”
Nessa swallows thickly, her eyes locked on mine. Her lips part, and she exhales a small puff of salt air. That soft, wet, pink tongue slowly grazes her lower lip. She angles closer, and her long blond hair slides over one shoulder, curving around her gorgeous, full tit.
I lean in, head lowered. “To be clear, I mean kissing you good night on your other pair of lips. I promise you the best kiss good night you’ll ever have.”
Her pupils blow wide. “Nobody has ever…”
I dip my head and bring my mouth to the sensitive spot below her ear. “Then let me show you what you’ve been missing. Nobody has to know. It’ll be a little favor between friends.” I punctuate the suggestion with a nip at the spot where her pulse is jumping.
She pulls her shoulders back, her breathing shallow. “We’re not friends. But let’s go.”
Tipsy enough to be out of character, but not so drunk to be unaware of the implication, I wrap an arm around her and pick up the bottle of tequila, then guide her to the elevator.