Chapter 21
twenty-one
Nessa
At eleven a.m. sharp, Mateo saunters up in light wash jeans paired with a fitted henley that emphasizes the muscles rippling down his shoulders and biceps, covering the tattoo sleeve he has down his right arm that stops just above the elbow. It may be hidden but it’s burned into my memory.
The fabric stretches perfectly across what I now intimately know are a defined chest and a full six-pack. He even has that stupid hip bone V-thing guys who work out too much get. I can’t stop my mind from drifting. Shit.
I try to fix my red lipstick subtly but find myself forced to wipe a little drool from the side of my mouth.
“Give me a twirl, gorgeous,” he shouts with a spin of his finger.
“Who, me?” I press a hand to my cheek and toss my hair, feigning shyness, though I quickly erupt into a giggle.
Have fun today , I repeat to myself. I don’t want to admit it, but spending time with Mateo is fun. Don’t be afraid. He is his own person. These are the kinds of phrases my therapist and I work on when the negative thoughts creep in.
I hop down the porch steps and give a little pirouette.
He scans me up and down, eyes lazily lingering, causing heat to rise into my cheeks. Since when do I blush?
My hair is pulled back from my face with a bright red claw clip, showing off three gold hoops—one in each ear and the third in my left nostril. I typically wear a simple clear stopper that prevents the piercing from closing, but fun Nessa is here today, and she’s bringing it back.
“Whoa, rockstar. Look at you…” His words trail off, but the warm appreciation is there.
My reaction—the skin tingles and a longing to hug him—feels foreign. I open my mouth to reply, but my throat is dry and my voice is scratchy. Has all the moisture in my body rerouted to my panties?
I clear my throat and try again.
“You told me to wear sturdy footwear but to dress up. Does this work?” I ask.
I worry my lip, noting his casual outfit. I’m about to head in and change when he steps forward and grasps my wrist.
“Don’t go. If you change, I’ll cry.”
The tone brings memories of him begging in the bedroom flashing back, and I nod.
“Can I take the wheel?” he asks, lazily pointing at the green sports car.
“Can you drive your car? Um, yeah. That’s fine.” I scoff, trying to keep my lips from twitching.
He guides me to the passenger side with a hand low on my back. Always showing off his chivalrous side, he opens the door and waits for me to be seated before softly closing it.
Mateo is relaxed behind the wheel. I’ve come to cherish these moments because he’s stopped poking me for information and is now focused on playing deejay. Today, we sing along—loudly—to his eclectic playlist.
When it switches to a hip-hop song about “stoners,” I retrieve my vape pen from my bag and wiggle it in his line of sight.
“This okay?” I ask tentatively. Stop testing him , a voice argues back.
Mateo nods nonchalantly before making a very chalant face. “You smoke around me more than I expected is all,” he says, his eyes quickly darting to me. “Not like it’s a problem. Just, surprising? You’ve always seemed so… put together…”
“I’m not put together?” I push back, my tone biting, betraying the mental claw sharpening. Is this a here is the history of how racist that is moment or a medical education one?
I swallow down some of the hostility, but not enough, to disguise my tone as I say, “I see some shit at work. Then, I’m everyone’s emergency contact.”
Fuck, that sounded like a complaint.
Lifting my chin, I infuse an unnatural level of confidence directed toward myself and say, “Not that I don’t love what I do. And I’m really fucking good at it.”
Yeah, as long as it’s about someone else. That damn annoying voice is back, and the more time I spend with Mateo, looking for Caleb over my shoulder, the louder it gets.
Inhaling, I take in that unique mix of damp peat and spicy smoke that comes from heavy clouds and bonfires this time of year.
“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to care,” I admit sheepishly while playing with the edge of my chipped nail polish.
He grasps the knob on the radio and turns the volume down.
“Someone like me, huh? What am I like?” His voice wavers as he asks, betraying insecurity behind the playful facade.
He’s been nothing short of vulnerable and kind, while I hide behind a wall. The wall he laid bricks in when we were teens, but that Caleb topped with barbed wire.
I gasp, taking in the rolling orchards and vineyards on each side of the road. Sometimes it’s easy to forget we’re so close to these farms. I shove the vape back in my bag, unused, and exhale.
Ready to move on, I turn the volume up again. “Oh, wait. Good song.”
In the back of my head, I add to the list of ways he’s responded any time there’s mention of him being less serious or intelligent. I don’t particularly want to care, but it’s starting to weigh on me.
The air between us remains charged, grinding my frayed nerves.
“We still need to name the kittens. Want to figure that out as we go on this mystery drive?” I ask, hoping he can read the gesture.
“Dope, let’s do it.” He shoots me a grin.
“Should we give them witchy names? The black cat could be Salem—like the show? Maybe the orange ones can be, um…” I’m trying, but this TV thing is really his domain.
“Nah, that kitten is no warlock,” he says. “He’s more of an artist. He’s a little trouble, a little snuggle. Sort of like you.”
Finally, he turns the car from the paved roadway onto a winding dirt path.
We’re volleying names and reasons for our choices when a Fugees’ song comes on.
Cocking a brow, I suggest, “Wyclef, Lauryn, and Pras Michel?”
“Yes. Wyclef is a perfect name for the black cat.” He grins, though the expression quickly fades. “Aw man.” He scrubs a hand over his face.
“We named the bunnies for the psychologists and cats for The Fugees.”
I frown, confused. “Okay, and?”
“The Fugees are a hip-hop group. Bunnies hop ,” he says, his tone genuinely disappointed by this revelation.
With a laugh at his ridiculousness, I pat his shoulder. “There, there, Matty. It’ll be okay.”
The car slowly creeps down the dusty roadway as he follows the signs telling us to park here . In the distance sits the Kelly Orchards. Yet instead of the usual crowds, the lot is empty, and rather than pull into the gravel lot, Mateo rolls toward the family home.
I aimlessly reach for him, my hands tracing the lines up and down his arm. I’m drawing invisible swirls over the hidden intricate black ink design encircling a sun with eight rays.
What is happening with me lately?
It’s completely inappropriate timing, which only encourages me to tease him further. Ghosting my hand from his knee up his thigh, I watch as he thickens against the fitted denim, relishing the way his breath hitches.
He quickly schools his expression and clears his throat. “Trouble maker.”
I hum, tapping my lips and feigning innocence. “I’m not doing anything.”
He unbuckles his seat belt and turns to face me. “Nessa, what are we doing?”
He exhales and rubs at his forehead. “First you can’t stand me, then we have sex.
You barely speak to me the rest of the weekend, but then, for months, text me randomly.
You hate me. You swear we’ll never fake date.
” He licks his lips. “Next thing I know, I’m coming to your rescue and we’re together every day.
Suddenly, we’re making out, then you storm off.
Now there are foster pets in my house.” His lips twitch a little there but quickly fall into a flat line again.
“Then, you arrive in lingerie and we have an amazing night together, only for you to try to sneak out.”
Fuck, when he puts it that way, it’s hard to deny I’m playing games.
“This is what I know: we both have reputations that don’t quite fit who we really are. I haven’t been with anyone but you since May, and I don’t want to be with anyone else, even if you can’t see what I see.”
“What don’t I see?” I whisper, sliding my hand again. Oops.
“Insufferable, woman,” he grits out between clenched teeth. He swings open the car door and heaves a deep breath. He stomps around the car and pulls open my door. “Let’s go,” he says, hand held out. “Folks are waiting for us.”
With one more huff, he yanks me toward the front door of the farmhouse.
Instinctively, we lace our fingers.
He brings his lips to the shell of my ear, his breath lightly tickling me as he whispers, “This is a date and a mission to get information.”
He presses a kiss to my pulse point, and in response, blood whooshes in my ears. It’s so loud and all-consuming that I lose touch with reality for a moment. I’m jolted back when he knocks loudly on the wooden door.
The door swings open, and Liam appears, wearing a grin. “Nice to see you during daylight hours.” He winks at me before exchanging a single-armed hug with Mateo.
Confused, I shuffle into the house. This is the start of a horror movie, or a porn, or both. A horror porn. Is that a thing? It’s probably a thing. I should look it up.
“Gran was so excited to hear that you’re visiting and bringing a dose of estrogen with you,” Liam says as he closes the door behind us.
The home is decorated in a country style, from the giant rusty milk pail filled with umbrellas and canes to walls covered in family-photos.
The most heavenly scent filters through the house, with hints of cinnamon spice, vanilla, and something fruity. If I could morph into a cartoon character, I would float my way toward the steaming scent trails.
I no longer care about whether I’ve found myself in a horror film, porn or not. I want to know what Liam’s Irish grandmother is cooking.
Inside the kitchen, we find Gran and his dad, James, who greets Mateo with a bear hug and a genuine smile.
“It’s great to see you, son.”