Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Iris
So, I’m like a wizard now. A star student. A magician.
I’ve gotten really good at sorting out what the newspaper wants me to see, even without Matteo’s help, but it’s way more fun to work on it together. We sometimes have competitions to see who can sort it faster. I’ve actually beaten him twice, and I’m pretty sure my victories were legit.
More than that, I’ve started to see ways for us to help people, even without the magic. Like, last week, I convinced him to take his day off and help me plan a date night for Val and Bear. We spent the afternoon at the restaurant—him in the kitchen and me in the dining room, setting up a special dinner just for the two of them. While they ate, Matteo and I hung back in the kitchen, also eating, and by the end of the night, the four of us were laughing over a spread of desserts we pulled from the refrigerator.
Liz and Brooke got tired of me talking about my “new friends” and demanded to be introduced, so we met at Aria for dinner and ended up having so much fun, we had a girls’ night .
I’m still trying not to get attached. Not only to Matteo, but to his friends.
But they’re making that incredibly difficult.
When I’m there, I feel like they want me there. They want to know about me, about my life. They make me feel like I fit in.
And I haven’t fit in anywhere in . . . maybe forever.
I survived the near-kiss by avoiding the topic and pretending it never happened. But I imagine the “what if it did . . .” more often than I will ever admit.
These fantasies are made worse by the fact that I’ve put myself in a similar situation several times over the last few weeks, practically waiting for him in the hallway so I can show him our new magic assignment, then sticking around while he unwinds after his very exhausting day.
Which is why I’m here now, on his couch, pretending to watch The Great British Baking Show when all I’m really doing is thinking about how our thighs and shoulders are practically touching.
Am I trying to recreate the moment? Maybe.
Am I a glutton for punishment? Definitely.
Will I regret it if something does happen? Probably yes, but maybe not.
That pretty much sums up how I make all my decisions when it comes to Matteo.
Will he turn away from me again? Probably yes, but maybe not .
Should I leave his apartment after he falls asleep? Probably yes, but maybe not.
The episode ends. My cue to go.
Beside me, Matteo shifts.
It’s a familiar pattern, but we both seem intent on avoiding the awkward moment, usually by not looking at each other when I leave .
I am in the friend zone. But at least I get to be around him. That’s good enough, right?
I pick up the remote and mute the TV, then glance over, surprised to find him watching me. I smile. “I told you your guy would be safe.” I nod back toward the TV, but my nerves are buzzing.
“I’m not convinced you haven’t watched this whole season all the way through,” he says.
I gasp in mock-horror. “I would never.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” He stretches, then sinks a bit deeper into the couch.
“I do wonder what it’s like for you to watch it with your knowledge of cooking versus me watching it with?—”
“No knowledge of cooking?”
I lean back and angle my body slightly toward him, trying not to read into the fact that he doesn’t seem to want me to go. “You could teach me. I mean, the French toast was a big success.”
“I could,” he says.
“You could teach a whole class,” I say.
“Eh.”
I frown. “Why not?”
“Too many people,” he says.
“I think you’re better with people than you give yourself credit for. I mean, look at us. We’re thick as thieves.” I exaggerate the comment, then glance over, expecting him to make some crack about how I’m always around and he can’t get rid of me, even with a cattle prod, but instead, I’m met with that look again.
The one that seems to say more than he’s ever said out loud.
My heart stalls. My face heats. All these days of being back here, and this hasn’t happened again . . . until now.
I don’t want to think about how I shouldn’t let myself feel all the things. I have big feelings . . . so what? I have to believe that one of these days, feeling them isn’t going to come back to bite me.
What if this time is different ?
Matteo shifts and sits up, eyes locked on to mine.
I’ve dated men. I know what this moment looks like, the seconds before everything shifts, the moment before the relationship changes.
It’s the heartbeat before I fall in love.
It’s familiar and entirely new all at the same time.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say, because honestly, I need to know.
“I don’t want to think,” he says. “And I don’t want to talk anymore.”
I swear I hear the distant tinkle of chimes from somewhere faraway as the world turns in slow motion. He moves toward me, eyes intense and flush with a desire that matches my own. He reaches for me, and when his hand lands on the back of my neck, I go completely still, except for the cartwheels turning in my stomach.
His eyes search mine as he moves even closer until our faces are only inches apart. He pauses, silently asking for permission to give in to whatever it is that’s happening between us right now.
Once he’s got it, it’s like the dam breaks—like whatever had been holding his desire back simply disappears.
The second his lips are on mine, my body rises to meet his.
I lean back against the arm of the couch, and he follows, hovering over me as I wrap my arms up around his neck and fully give in to this kiss.
He deepens the kiss, and my head spins, swirling with thoughts I couldn’t articulate if I tried. I’m sure of one thing, though—Matteo Morgan knows how to kiss .
His lips are so soft yet so firm, and I inhale slowly so I can engage every one of my senses. He’s so in control, and while I sense the urgency in the kiss, there’s gentleness too.
Is this really happening ? Am I actually kissing Matteo?
I clear the mental clutter and focus on the only thing that matters in that moment—him. I shudder when his tongue brushes across my lower lip, sensing the urgency in his shallow breaths, still knowing he’s in full control.
And I feel myself slipping deeper. Heat rushes to every nerve in my body, pulsing with a kind of desire that makes me want to ignore reason, to embrace reckless abandon.
In my mind, every past hurt falls away. None of them matter because they all led me here—to him. Which is exactly where I want to be.
He pulls back suddenly, and my stomach sinks.
He searches my eyes. “What are we doing?” His voice is low and breathless, his forehead pressed to mine.
I inch back and squint at him. “Do you really want me to explain it to you?”
He smirks, but his expression turns serious. “I want to be straight with you,” he says. “I really don’t know what I want . . .” His shoulders slump ever so slightly, and he looks away. “I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself feel this way again.”
It’s the open door I’ve wanted to walk through. I want to know why. Only now that it’s here, my feet are like cinder blocks holding me in place.
“I don’t need promises,” I say quietly, mustering the courage. “I know that neither one of us can predict the future. But . . .” I wait until he looks at me. “I do want to know the truth.”
He looks away, and I feel the weight of whatever it is he’s carrying.
“But only if you’re ready to tell me.” I pause. “Fair warning, though. I’m not very patient. ”
His smile is fleeting. “Honestly, I kind of like that you don’t know.”
I frown as my brain tries to fill in the blanks of what it is he isn’t willing to talk about, running through a list of worst-case scenarios that start with a felony record and end with a secret identity. “Why?”
He stands, his hand lingering in mine for a moment, and then he walks into the kitchen, pulls open the refrigerator, and takes out two bottles of water.
I follow him, wanting to give him space but also wanting him to know I’m not going anywhere. I take the water when he offers it, open the bottle and take a drink. I get the sense he needs to process this moment in silence, so that’s what I give him.
“I was married,” he says.
I’m mid-drink when he says this, and it catches me so off-guard, I forget how to swallow.
He doesn’t elaborate.
After a beat, I finally say, “A lot of marriages end. I hope you know I would never judge you for getting divorced . . .” Though I am a little surprised nobody mentioned it until now, especially at the restaurant.
But then, he shakes his head, looking at me behind slightly glassy eyes. “Not divorced.”
I frown. And I pause. And then I freeze. “Not divorced,” I repeat.
“Widowed.”
“Widowed.” My voice is so small, I doubt he even heard me. My heart squeezes, and I can feel tears push at the corners of my eyes.
Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who got his heart broken . . .
My stomach sinks as all the pieces shift into place. My comments must’ve seemed so flippant and careless to him. How could I be so stupid ?
“So that’s why you keep people at an arm’s length,” I say, putting it all together.
“Pretty much,” he says. Then, through half-gritted teeth, says, “And because it’s really hard to talk about. When people find out—especially women—they want to fix me.”
Right. The feminine urge to swoop in and save the broken man. I’m familiar with that. All at once aware that I’m squeezing the water bottle a little too hard. I set it down on the counter.
“I liked that you didn’t know,” he says, half-looking at me. “It was nice not to feel like someone’s project. But I also know that if you don’t know about this, you’ll never really know me.” A pause. “And I want you to know me.”
My heart flip-flops. “You do?”
He sets down his water, then moves around to the other side of the island. When he pulls out a stool, I think maybe I should pull out the other one and prepare for a heart-to-heart, but before I can, he takes my hand and tugs me closer, pulling my body in between his knees and wrapping his arms around me in a tight, warm hug.
There’s something so sweet in the wordless way he does this that makes his pain feel almost palpable. I hold him and let myself be held, clinging to him as the picture of who he really is finally becomes clear.
Minutes pass, and I don’t move, because something tells me it’s been a really long time since Matteo let anyone hold him.
Also because it’s been a really long time for me, too.
I pull back, slightly, not ready to let go. “Thank you for telling me.”
He nods, slightly, then presses his lips together. “Thank you for not treating me like some pity case.”
I hug him close again, and I realize I’m so at ease with him. I don’t know when or how it happened, but I don’t feel like I need to impress him or be someone I’m not. I don’t even feel like I need to make him like me.
I lift my chin, studying him for a long moment. “Tell me about her.”
He holds my gaze, and while I expect his body to go rigid at the question, it doesn’t. Instead, he seems to soften, eyes glazing over in what I can only assume is a memory.
“Her name was Aria.” He looks at me. “We were supposed to open the restaurant together.”
I move away slightly and prop myself on the other stool, but I don’t say anything, hoping my silence encourages him to go on.
“She was a pastry chef, like Nicola,” he says. “We all went to school together—me and Aria and Nic and Val . . . and then Bear, once they got together . . .” He half-laughs. “Aria and I hit it off right away. She was funny and upbeat, and she didn’t take any of my crap.”
“I like her already,” I say.
He reaches for his bottle of water, uncaps it, and takes a drink. “You two honestly would’ve hit it off, and it would’ve annoyed me to no end.” His smile is wistful. “She was the life of the party. The exact opposite of me.”
I force myself to stay in the present with him, to not go down the road of pity, which is exactly where he doesn’t want me to go.
“Not long after we met, we were inseparable. We were . . . best friends, really. And our little group was so tight, it was hard to imagine anything messing that up.” He presses his lips together, and I can see the moment reality sets in. I imagine this is why he doesn’t talk about Aria very often. Not because he wants to forget her, but because reliving it is too painful.
I reach out and take his hand.
He’s cautious. The way I was trying to be.
Heartbreak will do that to you .
“We got married young, and I thought that was it. We’d start our restaurant, have a couple kids, maybe get a dog . . .” He looks at me with a smirk. “ Definitely not a cat.”
At that, I laugh, glad for the break in the tension.
He helplessly shrugs. “I knew that was the life I wanted. I was convinced it would be forever.”
But life doesn’t work out the way you plan it.
“What happened?” I ask, quietly. “And you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“It’s okay. I want to tell you.” He pauses. “I haven’t really talked about it at all. With anyone.”
The weight of that isn’t lost on me.
“She was driving home from work,” he says on a tired exhale. “It was dark and icy . . . and . . .” He draws in a slow breath. “She lost control of the car. Skidded off the road. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, it was just an accident.” He drags a hand down his face. “There wasn’t even anyone I could blame.”
Oh .
I stay quiet, not sure what to say, wishing I had the exact right response. Instead, I squeeze his hand, hoping that in the absence of words, he feels that I’m here.
“It was unimaginable.” He shakes his head, and I see tears pooling in his eyes. “The cops showed up at my door, and I thought it had to be a mistake. There was no way—” He stops, overwhelmed.
I hold his hand and wait.
He sniffs, letting go of my hand to wipe his cheeks with his palms. “But then I tried calling Aria. When she didn’t answer, I called her again. I’ll never forget the sound of the line just ringing and ringing and then her happy voice on the recording.”
He goes still. “I’d just talked to her right before she left.” A pause. “I didn’t know that would be the last time I’d hear her voice. ”
I picture every second of that moment, easily feeling the pain of it, my heart hurting at his loss, and because I don’t want to be another person who doesn’t give him what he needs, I only say, “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then says, “It’s strange how different we are, isn’t it? You jump into new relationships, wanting to know everyone and not caring at all about the risk of getting hurt, and I?—”
“Hold yourself back because you never want to feel that pain again.”
I take his face in my hands, use my thumbs to wipe away what remains of the tears that escaped his eyes, and place a gentle kiss on his lips. “Take as long as you need to realize that this”—I flick my hand back and forth between us—“is worth the risk.”
“I think that’s what scares me most of all.”