Chapter 3 #2
Matt unbuttons his cufflinks and rolls his sleeves, revealing the ink stamped into his forearms, muscles and veins flexing with each movement.
He’s the ultimate bad boy dressed in a ten-thousand-dollar suit.
And he’s my best friend.
He has been since we were six.
“I know, but that’s no excuse,” I finally say. “You and Jensen are both busy, but you still find time to talk.”
“Sometimes we just text,” he offers.
Our server stops by, and Matt greets him like they’re old friends, like he does everyone. The man sets down a whiskey neat for Matt and an iced tea for me.
I watch as Matt takes his first sip, letting it linger in his mouth a second longer than most people would. He swallows, licks his lips, then exhales. “Mmm. That’s good.”
A smile pulls at my mouth. Same as always.
“Oh—hey, I forgot to ask.” He sits up straighter. “How’d your presentation go?”
My smile turns into a grin as I lean back, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear and folding my arms. “Slayed. I’m just waiting for confirmation, but there’s no way she’s not signing.”
His smile is so genuine. Like he’s truly proud of me. “Atta girl. I knew you’d kill it. Want to celebrate this weekend at a charity gala for underprivileged children?” His tone shifts to teasing, like he knows that’s not a celebration. But he’s also dead serious.
I laugh. “No.”
He feigns offense. “Rude.” He takes another sip, and I force my gaze away from his mouth as his tongue slides across his lower lip. “Okay, but in all seriousness,” he says, setting the glass down. “I need a date.”
“Then get one. You’ve got an arsenal of women in your contacts.”
He leans back, one hand loose around his glass. “Yeah, but none of them are you. Won’t be nearly as fun.”
I press my lips together. “Come on, Matt. We talked about this. I’m not going on dates with you. We’re not falling back into old patterns. What about that girl from a few weeks ago?”
“Which one?” he asks with a smirk.
“Well, I’d say the one you slept with, but… that doesn’t exactly narrow it down, does it?”
He nudges my foot with his. “Don’t be a dick.”
I let out a light laugh. “Fine. The one you took to that party. You said she was cool. You had fun with her.”
His gaze sears into mine. “Again. Not you.”
I shrug. Nothing new here. We’ve been going in circles like this for months now.
“Do we really have to rehash this?”
“Right.” He rolls his eyes. “The rules.” He releases his glass and leans forward. “Fuck the rules, Jordan. This is bullshit.”
“We don’t have to be friends, Matt. We can go back to how it was for the past two and a half years, if you’d rather.”
“Jesus Christ.” He straightens and takes another drink, larger this time. “I’m not going to try and fuck you,” he mutters.
I raise a brow. “History says otherwise.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re just as guilty as I am.”
“Oh, I know,” I say easily. “That’s why we’re just lunch friends now.”
“Fuck that. We can be just friends. We’re not animals.”
I can’t help it. A laugh slips out. If there’s one thing Matt is, it’s an animal. Pure, carnal male. And I can’t let my thoughts go there. Lunch isn’t the place to start imagining the kinds of things he’s good at.
Next.
“New topic,” I say, still grinning.
My phone dings, and I glance down.
It’s my boss.
I hold up a finger. “One sec.”
Chelsea
Congratulations! Wolf signed the contract. Take the rest of the day off. You deserve it.
My bottom lip slips between my teeth. Hell yes.
“What’s that look? Is that Chelsea?”
I nod, pure joy stinging behind my eyes. Not because I got an account.
Because I got the account.
The Sherry Wolf account.
This isn’t your average interior design project. It’s the project. An entire estate renovation in the Hamptons. And if she likes what I do with this one, it’ll extend across multiple properties she owns.
“Fuck yeah, babe.” Matt lifts his glass, pride beaming in his eyes. “Congratulations. You deserve it.”
I clink my glass against his, and we both take a celebratory sip.
He sets his drink down, grin curving slow and deliberate.
“Now… for celebrating. I’m thinking you in a Vera Wang dress at a charity gala this Saturday.
I’ll wine and dine you, then we can head back to my place and do what we do best.” He taps my crossed leg under the table, that grin of his pure trouble.
I just shake my head, laughing. “You’re the worst.”
“But I’m really the best.”
“We’re not doing this again.”
“Sure, sure,” he says easily, still grinning. “I’ll just admire from this side of the table, then.”
“Do your worst,” I quip, letting his gaze roam over me, knowing exactly what’s running through that deliciously dirty mind of his.
Matt and I have never been good at being just friends.
No, that’s a lie.
We’re terrible at it.
In fact, we’ve never really been just friends. We’ve been off and on our whole lives. Either together, friends with benefits, or not speaking at all.
There’s no in-between.
The last time we were actually together was eight years ago, when we were twenty-seven. I broke it off. I’m always the one who breaks it off. Hard to stay with someone when you don’t know how to push back on everything trying to pull you apart.
Then we did the whole Matt and Jordan “friends” thing, where we continue to sleep with each other but aren’t together.
I started dating someone a year later. It got serious, and I cut ties.
We didn’t speak for almost two years. Not until he turned thirty and somehow crept back into my life… and my bed.
Like always.
A few years later, I started seeing Richard and cut Matt out again. Not only does it not sit well with other men to have Matthew Grayson as your best friend, it’s impossible for us not to repeat the same bad decisions.
And because I’m not a cheater, I push him away when I’m with someone else.
Our food arrives, a medium-rare ribeye for him, a summer salad for me, loaded with berries, nuts, and a zesty orange vinaigrette.
I’m not falling back into old habits this time. I want to get married. Have a family. And time isn’t on my side. I’m thirty-five. I’m not getting any younger.
Matt dumps his glazed carrots onto a side plate and slides them across the table for me, then steals a piece of my sourdough like he owns it.
The meat eater and the vegetarian.
It’s still new, whatever this version of us is. I’m still trying to figure it out. Which is why I’ve given him lunch on Tuesdays.
It’s only been three months, but it’s so damn easy to fall back into a rhythm with Matt.
He knows me better than anyone. He’s the one person I’ve shared my deepest, darkest secrets and fears with. The one person I feel safe enough with to just… be me.
To let the parts of myself show that would shame my family.
The parts Matt never shies away from.
The parts only he knows.