Chapter 10
ten
Mateo
The word “rules” causes me to puff out my cheeks before expelling my breath. Rules? Why can’t we just go with the flow? I hate rules.
She pulls a notebook from her tote, then a pen, tapping impatiently.
“What happened to your car?” If I can keep her from making rules, it’ll be so much better.
“It won’t turn on. I don’t know. AAA said they can’t come out today.” She shrugs, fidgeting with her hands.
“Gabe’s old car, right?” It’s from the late eighties. Maybe the early nineties.
“Yeah, but we can’t all go out and buy whatever we want all the time.” She lowers her head, her focus fixed on her hands. “I could do that stuff I make good enough money. The problem is Ema.”
“E. Mah?”
“E-Ma. Don’t you know I use the Hebrew words for mom and dad?”
“No shit, me too. Well, not Hebrew. I use Tagalog. We call our parents Nanay and Tatay.” I huff a laugh. “I guess you probably know that, being so close to Stef.”
I lean on the console between us, my arm brushing hers.
“Ema and Aba.” She nods once.
“So, what about your Ema?”
“She’s been on some giant work assignment, and she’s barely around lately.
It’s like, without her around, everybody comes to me when they need something.
There was the time Shae drank too much, and I covered her ambulance cost. Tal needed help with textbooks last semester, and I didn’t want to worry our parents… and…” She shrugs.
“Oldest child steps up,” I say. “True that. True that.”
“I love supporting my siblings, helping them when I can, but I was saving that money for car repairs. Unfortunately, the car has decided it’s time to be put to rest.”
“If you woke up tomorrow and your dream car was parked in your driveway, what would it be?” I glance at her before returning my eyes to the road.
She’s begun to finger-comb her hair, pulling three strands out and starting a tiny braid. Her hands tremble through the motion and her voice shakes as she firmly shoots me down. “Mateo, absolutely not. No.”
“What if it was just a rental? While you figure it out?” I push because I never know when to quit.
She wets her lips, and now I can’t help but think of kissing her. I want to fight with her and take care of her. It’s a compulsion that continues to bubble inside me.
Her protest comes out in the cutest little whine, her gaze on her shoes. “No. Please don’t offer to pay for things.”
“No extravagant gifts. Got it. Then here’s my final offer,” I say, using a game show host tone. “Mateo will be Nessa’s personal chauffer until other arrangements can be secured.”
Tapping her lips, Nessa lets out a soft “hmm” and shifts in her seat. “I can just call you at the drop of a hat and you’ll come running? Go anywhere?”
Her eyes have lifted again, meeting mine briefly. The golden threads through the soft brown irises twinkle with the return of the mischievous girl.
When she puts it that way, my cock twitches, eager to scream “fuck yes. Use me.”
“Yep. Exactly,” I say, though my throat’s gone dry. I reach for a water bottle, but the cupholder is empty.
Perky and beaming a wide, toothy smile, she agrees. “Sounds fun. Now, back to the rules.”
With a groan, I drop my head back against the seat.
“Rule number one: No seeing other women.”
I chuckle. Pausing to consider whether to turn it around on her, suggesting she not see other men. But I can’t think of the last time anyone talked about Nessa dating. Not to mention her comment about the number of men she’s been with. Does she date?
Setting aside the serious question, I use this opportunity to make these “rules” as ridiculous as I find the concept.
“Fine. Rule number two: When we’re in public, you must say at least one nice thing to me or about me.”
Her lips kick up on one side. “Can I still be mean the rest of the time?” The earnestness is adorable.
“Actually, I’d prefer it.” I reach across the car in an attempt to hold her hand.
She pulls back. “Rule number three: No unnecessary touching or kissing.”
“What makes it necessary?” I push back.
She ignores me. “Four: What’s the story with your sister?”
“What do you mean?” Lips pressed together, I study her, hoping her expression will help explain the question.
“In most romance books, when a person is in a relationship with their best friend’s sibling, they keep the friend in the dark until the friendship suffers. I don’t want that to happen.”
I frown, confused. “This isn’t a book.”
“Right. Also, those aren’t fake dating situations. In those scenarios, everyone knows about the relationship. That’s the point. To get the antagonist—in this case Caleb—off the back of the person faking it—me,” Nessa says, her pen tapping noisily on the page.
“This is way too complicated to be a book,” I tease her.
Her face twitches, betraying a tiny smirk.
“Never read an eight-character why choose before, I see.” The wicked expression falls quick, along with her voice.
“Since Caleb, I don’t date. Been pretty clear on the fact that I don’t plan to, either.
Everyone is going to have questions that I do not want to answer. ”
“Why?”
Breezing past my question, she continues. “They aren’t going to believe that somehow, months after I randomly hook up with you—someone I’ve actively avoided since high school—I’ve changed my stance on dating… so I guess rule number four is that if one of us adds to the story, we go along with it?”
“Oh. My. God. Nessa, you want me to ‘yes, and’ you?” I grin and clap my hands once before returning them to the wheel.
“Oh no. Are you telling me you are an improv comic?” She shudders.
“Don’t judge. Think about the movies and TV shows I love—the actors are all graduates of a few elite improv schools. I tried to take classes in New York, but my work schedule got in the way. Still, I was an audience member every chance I had.”
She hums, one brow cocked, but doesn’t say anything.
An unfamiliar wave of nervousness runs through me. “What?”
“Just trying to fit this new, extremely uncool information into the picture I have of cool, playboy Mateo,” she teases.
“Uncool? Please. First, it was cool, and second, it was mad fun.” I scoff. “Fun? That gets me thinking. Rule number five: Nessa must do something that is fun and just for herself at least once a week.” Feeling smug, I wait for the fight, but she just continues to scratch the notes on her page.
“Fine.” She taps the end of her pen against the paper. “Now there’s just one last thing to do to make it official.”
I arch a mocking brow. “You want me to change my Facebook status?”
“No, someone will have to text the Springer.” She sighs.
Perfect.
“Don’t worry. I have just the brother for the job. He loves that thing.”
Peacock Springer:
Alert! Insiders confirm that love is blooming between the Sunflower Fest co-chairs.