Chapter 9
Stinkin’ Ring
Holly
We talk about sandwiches on the way to Mendocino’s. I’ve learned I’m about to be married to a starving omnivore, which is surprising because I thought Mateo would totally be the carnivore type.
Mateo lists vegetables, lettuce types, and then the layers of meat he loves on his sandwiches. I can’t help but laugh. “How do you fit all that food into your mouth? Does it even fit on a sandwich?”
He flexes his muscles. “You just need to have big muscles like mine so you can squish it and hold it all together as you take the biggest bites of your life.”
I poke his bicep, which is a lot more solid than I expected. Not that I had expectations, of course. I poke it a second time for good measure because he’s still holding out his arm toward me, flexing. “Hm, I expected more.”
He feigns shock, yanking his arm away from me to place his hand over his heart in a dramatic fashion.
“Excuse me. Those are hard-earned muscles, ma’am.
These ain’t no gym boy muscles.” He fakes what I’d call a redneck accent that has me holding in my giggles.
“They’re hard work muscles from workin’ outside every day. They’re stronger than they look.”
“Simmer down, hotshot. I believe you,” I tease as I reach over and poke his arm again. He flexes and I can’t deny it: those ain’t no gym boy muscles.
“I can’t believe my fiancée just made fun of my muscles,” he mutters as he turns into the parking lot.
“I can’t feed your ego, farm boy. Gotta keep you humble.” I shrug, throwing him a playful smirk.
He shakes his head, a wide smile on his face, his eyes crinkling with laughter.
He parks the car, and I hop out, not waiting for him to get my door. He meets me around the front and reaches toward me, interlacing his fingers with mine. I stumble over nothing as we walk, my body overwhelmed by the feeling of his hand.
My heart welcomes the contact, feeling comforted by his callused palm against my soft one. My heart races while simultaneously being soothed. I feel turned upside down while feeling grounded, and the dichotomy of my feelings is not lost on me.
Mateo holds the restaurant door open for me, and as we stand in line to order, his hand squeezes mine. I look up into his warm eyes and the combination of physically touching him, and the way he’s looking at me has my breathing ragged. I can’t get enough oxygen in here.
Mateo leans down, his voice soft and quiet. “Hey, today is a good day. I hope holding hands is okay. I figure we are engaged, so we better start acting like it.” He winks, and it’s that goofy move that has my heart settling.
We’re acting. Holding hands doesn’t have to mean anything. We can be two friends who hold hands and enjoy being in each other’s company, simple as that.
It’s simple.
We’re still holding hands as we order, and it’s only because of this that Mateo is able to swoop in front of me and pay for our meal before I can grab my wallet out of my purse.
I glare at him, and he only smiles at me after taking the receipt.
“I was going to split it with you,” I mutter as we walk to a window table.
He pulls out my chair and squeezes my hand one last time before letting go as I sit down across from him.
Mateo spears me with his golden-flecked chocolate eyes, his jovial face serious as he leans across the table toward me.
I can’t look away.
“I totally believe in your independence and ability to pay for your part of the meal. That isn’t what this is about.
I’m not the type of man who lets a lady pay on a date.
I value our time together enough to pay for the food you’re eating, and to want to give you this gift.
Plus, you’re my fiancée. I’m paying. Fight me all you want, but you won’t win. ”
My protests die a swift death. The sweet sentiment assuaged my feminine independence.
I feel valued by a man in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
This is not good. This is really not good. I can’t catch more than friendship feelings for Mateo. It’d mess up everything with his friendship with Alex if I did end our fake relationship.
I can’t fall for my fiancé.
But Mateo is making it really hard not to fall when he says things that heal my wounded heart.
Words have failed me, so I nod. Silence is our comfortable companion as we wait for our sandwiches.
My fingers tap dance across the table, the feel of their tips hitting the metal distracting me from feelings.
I shove down any trace of attraction to Mateo, even the ounce I feel at the fact he’s okay sitting in silence.
I’ve had the impression he’d be a talker, filling all the silence between us.
I’ve been pleasantly surprised to learn he understands the need for occasional quiet.
“Can we talk about the fine details of this arrangement?” he asks.
Oh yeah, we haven’t talked about anything besides what we said in our texts. I have it all outlined in my mind, but I probably should let him in on the plan.
“What questions do you have?”
He rubs his jaw, scratching at his scruff for a moment. “How long?”
I raise an eyebrow. “How long, what?”
He blows out a breath. “How long until we get divorced?”
I flinch. Divorce is an ugly word. It's something you use when a marriage is dead, but I feel like it’d need to be alive in the first place to use.
“I think we stay married for a year. Then we can file the separation paperwork. Everything should die down by then and Jorge will go away, especially if we can get this restraining order to stick. At that point, I can slip under the radar as the sister of Alexander Kingston whose marriage didn’t last long…
But, between us, can we not call it a divorce? ”
His lips quirk up in the corner. “As you wish.”
I groan and cover my eyes with my hands. “It’s just as corny in person as when you text it to me.”
His laughter rings out through the deli and I feel my cheeks heat beneath my palms as people glance our way.
“We can call our separation whatever you’d like, Holly.”
I drop my hands and meet his gaze. Our order number rings out, and Mateo hops up from his chair. He’s still chuckling when he comes back sandwiches in hand.
He hands me my chicken pesto caprese sandwich. I’m about to dig in when he clears his throat.
I look up. “What?”
He grins. “Can I say a prayer over our food?”
Guilt floods my system. I need to get better at this prayer thing, but it’s still so new and hard to break twenty-four years of not praying before eating. I set my sandwich down and fold my hands, bowing my head in agreement.
His voice is reverent as he says a brief prayer, blessing our food and praying for guidance in our conversation and through the events of this weekend. Another sliver of peace works its way into my anxious heart after he says amen.
I look up, and our eyes meet. I’m lost in his brown irises, the color like the dark wood of my home office desk with a few gold flecks. They have a warmth that encompasses Mateo’s personality.
I blink, the moment between us broken by the movement. Silently, we dig into our sandwiches. I groan as I taste the balsamic glaze mixed with the pesto and the mozzarella. The combination is heavenly.
A matching noise comes from Mateo as he chews. His eyes are closed as he savors his sandwich. “This is delicious. I knew I would love the herb aioli on the bread.” He takes another large bite, practically dancing in his chair as he eats. “Nothing hits the spot like a good sandwich.”
“Amen to that,” I echo, holding my panini up in a mock toast, before taking another bite.
Mateo is as entertaining when he’s eating as when he talks.
This man loves his food.
His joy makes me feel like I won’t be judged for having an appetite. If I’m this comfortable eating in front of him, then maybe this marriage won’t be as awkward as I’ve feared. We’ll at least be able to enjoy good food together.
A few minutes later, and Mateo has finished eating, every bite of his sandwich a cherished experience.
He wipes his hands on his napkin and sits up straighter, his eyes pinning me to my seat. “Wedding rings. We never talked about wedding rings.”
I scrunch my nose. “Do we need wedding rings?”
His eyebrows raise. “Holly. We’re getting married to convince the public you’re off the market, and to get the lowlife men of this world away from you. Especially he-who-shall-not-be-named, because I don’t want to risk jail time by getting worked up. You need a wedding ring.”
An image of Jorge flits through my mind.
He had asked me about a ring when I saw him last. I shove thoughts of him away and lock them back up and throw away the key for good measure.
I am not giving that man another inch of space in my head.
If a ring will keep me away from him, then get me the stinkin’ ring.
“You’ve convinced me. I don’t want something real, though.”
“Understandable. Should we go fake ring shopping then?”
I laugh. “I didn’t have any other plans for this afternoon besides cleaning my house, so why not?”
“Ring shopping over cleaning, for sure. Where should we go?”
I quickly chew through the bite I just took while thinking about Mateo's question, then frown.
“Um, I don’t know. I only know of real jewelry shops.”
He nods, slaps his hands against his thighs, and jumps to his feet. “Walmart it is then. Let’s go.”
I cough. “Mateo, I’m not done.”
He looks at my plate and then at me. “Oh yeah… you should finish.” He sits back down in his chair, his cheeks tinged pink. “I got a little excited.”
I laugh. “I can tell. Don’t worry, I’m almost done. Then you can help me pick out the biggest fake diamond of my life.”
He smirks. “I’m thinking at least five inches tall.”
I nod. “Definitely needs to match my ego.”
Mateo laughs. “What ego?”
I smile wryly. “The one that thinks I can pull this off and fool the world.”
He leans across the table, a mischievous smile across his lips. “We’re going to fool the world together and enjoy every moment of it.”
His smile sends butterflies through my stomach.
Maybe we will.