Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sitting over a room service breakfast he agreed to out of a lack of willingness to temper Ophelia in any way, Mateo stares at a satellite view of Topher’s mom’s house, projecting the air of a professional who’s definitely not going to be weird about their misunderstanding last night.
He’d had a lot of hours to—not think about it, that implies he’s thought about it—but to conclude that pretending it hadn’t happened is the only solution.
Which is easy. They have a clear job to do today.
No time for deep psychological overanalysis of anything.
It’s still early, but the additional hour or so to mentally acclimate that Mateo was hoping for is shattered when Topher steps out of his room. He’s in his outfit from the day before, mussy-headed, barefoot, and startled to see them at the six-chair dining area of this insane hotel room.
Topher’s eyes round. “Good morning,” he says, simultaneously looking cheerful and grimacing, the little smile on his lips in physical pain.
Ophelia, who’s scooping a wretched seed and porridge goop into her mouth with the sluggishness of someone sleepwalking but really dedicated to getting every free meal, grunts in greeting. Which means Mateo’s the one who has to act like a normal functioning person here.
“Morning,” he says back, again doing a stupid little wave, which is his thing now, he guesses.
“I just have to …” Topher says mysteriously, edging toward the suite door but unwilling to take his eyes off of Mateo.
He reaches with one hand behind him, catches the door handle, and opens it.
For a split second Mateo thinks he’s going to run away, but on the other side of the door, waiting patiently, is Quincy.
At this point, Topher’s forced to turn away.
A whispered exchange between the two and then Quincy hands a bag over and comes in, eying their breakfasts and finding the QR code for the menu.
Yes. Amazing maneuver, Topher. Now they can’t possibly bring up last night.
Topher disappears into his room, and Quincy joins them at the table with a quiet hello that’s reciprocated through dull nods.
Relieved he’s managed to avoid any sort of interpersonal conversation, Mateo returns his attention to his phone, on which he’s uselessly looking at a roof, like that’s helping anything.
He pans around the streets just for thoroughness and is about to attempt to eat some of his scrambled eggs when his phone vibrates with a text.
It’s from Topher, and reads: Could you come talk to me in my room?
Mateo’s not done reading it before a second pops up: You absolutely don’t have to.
And a third: If you don’t feel comfortable that’s totally alright.
Closing his eyes briefly, Mateo wishes for a strength of character and spirit he doesn’t have and wordlessly leaves the table.
Ophelia doesn’t move, but he’s pretty sure he can feel Quincy’s eyes on him as he walks across the suite.
He doesn’t bother knocking. If this has to happen, he’s going to brute-force his way through it as fast as possible.
Topher’s sitting at the desk, phone still in hand, and startles to his feet at Mateo’s sudden arrival.
He’s changed clothing—what Quincy was probably here for—and is now wearing a pair of extra-wrinkled skinny jeans, cuffed at the bottom, and a long-line t-shirt with a curved hem and raw seams. It’s all grays again, with an excellent fit.
Mateo appreciates his aesthetic loyalty, wants to say as much, but that’s not what he’s here for.
Holding both hands up, palms toward Topher to stop him, Mateo tries to make this painless. “Look, this isn’t necessary. It was late. Everyone was tired. We’d had a day. Accidents happen. We’d been drinking.” There. Every excuse possible. Easy and done.
He expects Topher to do a google-eyed nod and free them both, but Topher frowns, gripping his phone to his stomach.
“That was really inappropriate of me. I think you’re cool, and I just …
” A pause, looking fantastically grim. Mateo almost cuts him off, the level of suffering on Topher’s face too much for what was just a deeply embarrassing mistake.
But Topher presses on. “I jumped to something insane because … I don’t know.
” A mirthless little smile slides over his lips.
“Wishful thinking, I guess. But there’s no excuse.
I put you in a weird spot where I owe you money for things and you might not feel like you can tell me to back off.
I want to make it clear that I won’t do anything like that ever again.
” Topher fiddles with his phone a minute, then turns it around to display a confirmation email to Mateo.
In case Mateo doubts his sincerity, he guesses.
“I’ve already booked my own suite, so I’ll get out of your hair today.
Or, if you’d prefer, I can pay you the amount we agreed upon right now and call this done. ”
It’s the most words he’s heard Topher speak in succession without backpedaling or corrections, and it’s disconcertingly earnest, and very concerned about Mateo’s feelings in a way no one but Ophelia has ever been. It’s not just nice. It’s an out.
All of the money and none of the risk.
He’d been a foot out the door just last night. Could probably get Ophelia to accept it if Topher were telling them to go. No reason in the world not to take it.
Except it leaves Topher to figure this out alone.
“For the record, it didn’t occur to me for even a second that you might pressure me, and that’s not because I lack imagination,” Mateo says, neck heating at even alluding to the event.
“Also, for that same record, it’s not insane.
You’re a nice, smart guy with a pretty choice wardrobe.
I’m not, like, offended or anything. I’m just not very—” Human is probably the best way to end that sentence, but he can’t say that.
“It’s fine. Really. You don’t have to get out of here.
We’re cool. It’s cool. I’m cool and you’re cool. ”
Finally bobbling his head in a nod, the unhappy downturn of Topher’s mouth smooths away. “Okay. Okay. Great.”
“Also, you did buy me dinner, so,” Mateo for some reason jokes, even though he’d totally managed to smooth this over already.
Topher’s eyes go briefly very wide, and Mateo’s horrified he’ll have to frantically explain that he makes stupid jokes as social lubricant.
That he’s not really implying Topher felt like he owed him something for paying.
But then a smile flickers across Topher’s lips.
“Actually, I bought you breakfast too,” he says, skirting around Mateo to leave the room but calling back, “Which we should probably go eat.”
Every time Topher jokes back, Mateo’s wholly unprepared for it, but seeing that smile loosens the pressure he hadn’t realized was building in his chest. It takes him a moment to recognize the pressure as heat; the heat as how his body feels when he’s getting angry in a demon-esque way.
Except he’s not angry.
Tongue to teeth, he confirms they’re sharp.
Had staring at Topher’s doe-eyed contrition made the demon mad? A really concerning reaction, demon. What is that supposed to mean? Does the demon hate apologies? Does it just hate seeing Topher upset?
Or maybe it hates idiots who turn down free money.
Unclear how he’s feeling about that exchange, Mateo follows Topher to eat his cold eggs.