Chapter 16 Matteo
MATTEO
A few days after we destroyed the construction site, Sierra has the night off work, and the two of us go to her parents’ house for dinner.
I’d rather take a bullet.
That sounds dramatic. It’s not. I’ve been shot before.
I know exactly what that feels like. But walking into a house full of people who love Sierra, people who are going to ask me questions I can’t answer, who are going to look at me and wonder what the hell their daughter is doing with a man like me?
Again, I’d rather take a bullet.
Sierra talked me into this. She pointed out that meeting her family now would make the wedding go smoother, and she’s right.
I know she’s right. But that doesn’t make the knot in my stomach loosen as I pull into the driveway of a modest two-story house with a garden that looks like something out of a magazine.
This would be simpler if her family knew the truth. But Sierra doesn’t want that. And I’m learning that what Sierra wants matters more to me than my own comfort. Dangerous realization to have in a driveway.
“Wait till you see it up close,” Sierra says, practically bouncing in her seat.
I kill the engine. “It’s nice.”
“Nice?” She laughs. “Come on. Let me show you.”
Before I can protest, she’s out of the car and heading toward the garden like a kid on Christmas morning. I follow, hands in my pockets, shoulders tight.
She stops in front of a row of plants with pink tubular flowers. “Penstemon. They’re perfect for the desert—full sun, barely any water. See how the hummingbirds love them?”
I glance up. Sure enough, a hummingbird darts between the blooms, wings a blur.
“And these,” she continues, pointing to bright yellow flowers, “are desert marigolds. My mom wanted something cheerful near the porch.”
“They’re... yellow.”
She grins. “Very observant.”
“I’m not great with plants.”
“I know. Your yard is basically gravel and sadness.” She nudges my arm. “But we could fix that. Just saying. If you ever wanted a garden.”
I don’t want a garden. I’ve never thought about a garden in my entire life.
“No pressure.” She hesitates. “It’s just... I like making things grow.”
The word maybe is out of my mouth before I can stop it. I don’t give a shit about landscaping, but that look on her face is doing something to me.
Her smile could power the whole goddamn city.
We step onto the porch, and Sierra pauses with her hand on the door. “Ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
She laughs softly. “Not really.”
My palms are damp.
Sierra must sense something because she reaches over and squeezes my hand. Her fingers are warm and small against mine. “They’re going to like you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough.” She stands on her toes and kisses my cheek. “Just be yourself. Well, maybe a slightly friendlier version of yourself.”
“Great.”
She opens the door without knocking and walks inside like she belongs here, which she does. I follow, feeling too big for the space, too rough for the soft carpet under my feet and the family photos lining the walls.
Two men are on the couch in the family room, beers in hand, a football game on the TV. They look up when we enter, and both of them stand.
The taller one grins at Sierra. “There’s my girl.”
“Hi, Dad.” She smiles and closes her eyes as he wraps her in his arms.
“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” he gripes, but there’s no real heat in it. Just fatherly concern wrapped in a gruff exterior.
Sierra steps back and returns to my side. Her shoulder brushes mine. “Dad, Uncle James, this is my fiancé, Matteo.”
Her dad’s grip is firm. Challenging. He’s trying to establish dominance, and I get it. I respect it, even. But I’m bigger, stronger, and it’s not in my nature to roll over just because he wants to test me. I meet his pressure with my own, steady and controlled.
His eyes narrow slightly.
The uncle tries the same thing. Same result.
Sierra’s watching with amusement, and I release James’s hand before this turns into a dick-measuring contest.
A woman appears from the kitchen. She has Sierra’s eyes. Sierra’s smile. Sierra in thirty years, and still beautiful.
“Oh,” the woman says, and then she’s moving toward me with her arms open. “I’m so happy to meet you.”
She hugs me.
I freeze.
My arms hang at my sides like dead weight because I don’t know what to do with this. Outside of my mother, and Sierra, I can’t remember the last time someone touched me with warmth instead of violence. And never this easily.
But Sierra’s mother is squeezing me like I’m already family.
“I’m Alicia.” She steps back. If she noticed my awkwardness, she doesn’t show it. “You can call me that. And my husband is Harold.”
Harold looks like he’d prefer I call him Mr. Dixon and keep my distance from his daughter, but he keeps his mouth shut.
“Come, come.” Alicia waves us toward the dining room. “Dinner’s almost ready. Sierra, set the table. Harold, get the water glasses. James, help me with the salad.”
They jump into action, and I’m left standing there like an idiot, not sure what to do with my hands.
The rest of the family arrives in a rush of noise and energy. Sierra’s two brothers, their wives, her cousin Audrey. I recognize her from the bar, and she gives me a look that says she recognizes me, too.
Within minutes, we’re all seated around a long table. Sierra’s on my right. Her brother Greg on my left. Her parents at opposite ends.
Everyone’s talking at once—questions flying, laughter filling the space—and it’s so loud, so much, that I have to fight the urge to walk back outside.
This isn’t my world.
But Sierra’s hand finds my thigh under the table, and I stay.
I load my plate with roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. The food is good. Really good. And slowly, as the meal goes on, the knot in my stomach starts to loosen.
Sierra’s brother Julian tells a story about shipping turtle eggs. Some kind of rescue operation after an oil spill. His wife, Harper, watches him like he hung the moon. His parents listen with pride. Even Audrey, who seems to have a permanent chip on her shoulder, laughs at the right parts.
This is what family looks like.
The real thing. Not the broken version I grew up with.
“So.” Sierra’s uncle, James, leans forward, his gaze landing on me. “How did you two meet?”
Sierra tenses beside me. Her thigh presses against mine under the table.
We didn’t prepare for this question. Why didn’t we prepare for this question?
But I don’t hesitate.
“Coffee shop,” I say, and glance over at her. “She spilled iced coffee all over me.”
A few people laugh, and I keep going, surprising myself.
“She was apologizing so much I thought she might pass out.” I pause, letting the memory of that day settle. “I couldn’t stop watching her. The way she smiled even though she was flustered. I knew I had to see her again.”
It’s not a lie. Not really.
Sierra’s staring at me now, her eyes soft, and I hold her gaze a beat too long.
“That’s sweet,” Alicia says, her hand over her heart.
Harold clears his throat. “Sweet, sure. But you barely know each other. Hell, we didn’t even know you existed until last week.”
“Dad—”
“It hasn’t been that long since she broke things off with her last boyfriend,” James cuts in, his tone careful. “You can understand why we’re shocked.”
Her brother, Julian, nods. “I figured we’d meet a guy a few times before he proposed.”
The whole table is looking at me now. Waiting.
I take Sierra’s hand under the table. Her fingers tremble as they intertwine with mine.
“I know it’s fast.” I keep my eyes on her. “I got swept up in the excitement of finding someone like her. I didn’t see it coming. She’s...” I swallow. “She’s special.”
Sierra’s eyes are glassy, her lips parted, and for a second, I forget anyone else is here. It’s just her. Just us.
“Well,” Alicia says, breaking the moment. She’s smiling so wide it looks like it might hurt. “I think that’s beautiful.”
I nod, but I don’t look away from Sierra.
Because it’s not just beautiful.
It’s true.