Chapter 11
ELEVEN
VANESSA
I sleep for a few hours, waking as the sun starts to dip toward the horizon. I have blackout curtains, but I leave them cracked just enough to catch the light when evening sets in. I grab my phone. It’s almost six. And then it hits me. I’m not alone in my apartment.
I get out of bed and change out of my pajamas, pulling on yoga pants and a blue t-shirt.
When I step into the living room, the TV is on, but Mateo isn’t on the couch. His things are still here, though, which tells me he didn’t leave completely. Maybe he’s in the bathroom. I glance over—nope, the door’s open. I check the dining area, the reading nook, even the balcony.
Nothing.
I head into the bathroom, splash water on my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair back into a ponytail.
“You should keep your hair down more,” someone says.
I jump, spinning toward the doorway to find Mateo standing there. “Sorry,” he adds quickly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I notice the bags in his hands. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he continues as he walks over to the dining table and sets them down. “So I ran out to grab a few things. We were running low after the last grocery run, and Kevin told me Thai food is your favorite.”
“Thank you,” I say softly, “you could’ve woken me up, you know—so you didn’t have to go by yourself.”
“It’s not a big deal,” he replies with a small smile.
I head into the kitchen, grab a couple of glasses, and fill them with water. When I come back, we sit down together as he starts unpacking the food. He hands me two containers: one with rice, the other filled with yellow curry.
“Gang Garee,” he says. “Kevin said it’s your favorite. And that you like it a little spicy, so I got you medium.”
I look up at him and smile, something warm settling in my chest.
“Thank you,” I say, studying him. “Did you really call Uncle Kevin?”
A faint blush creeps up his neck. “Yeah. I didn’t want to wake you. I also didn’t want to risk getting something you wouldn’t like.”
I give him a soft smile and nod, warmth spreading through me at the thought.
We mostly eat in silence, and every so often I catch him looking at me—not just glancing—but really looking.
The more I study him, the more I notice the small details: the faint scar above his left eyebrow and the shallow dimples that appear when he laughs.
Even the way his muscles shift beneath his shirt is subtle, never showy.
His hair is dark, almost black, threaded with subtle flecks of brown, and he keeps brushing it back with his fingers.
I must be staring, because suddenly his gaze locks onto mine. He looks straight into my eyes, and the intensity of it feels like it reaches somewhere deep inside me.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say, already hearing the fluster in my voice.
Great. Now he probably thinks I’m the kind of person who just stares at people.
I am a people-watcher, but usually from a distance, not from two feet away.
We fall back into silence, the only sounds coming from the TV as a college basketball game starts up and the soft clink of our utensils against the plates.
I try not to look at him again, but for some reason, I can’t stop myself.
When we’re both finished, I stand and gather the empty containers, tossing them into the trash. As I head into the kitchen to grab a rag and wipe down the table, he rises too.
“I’m going to jump in the shower,” he says, already turning away. A moment later, the bathroom door shuts behind him.
I let out a long breath. I clear the table and wipe down the counters, going through the same motions I do every night. I grab a stemmed wine glass and pour myself a small glass, hoping it’s enough to steady my nerves before he gets out of the shower.
I drink it faster than I ever have, just enough to take the edge off. After rinsing the glass in the sink, I set it back in the cabinet and head for the couch, turning my attention to the game.
That’s when I notice the blanket is neatly folded and on top of the pillow he slept on last night.
I’m just thinking about moving to the chair on the left side of the couch when Mateo steps out of the bathroom with wet hair and a towel wrapped around his waist—again. Clearly, he’s not used to sharing a space, or a bathroom, with someone else.
He crosses the room to his duffel bag, and I completely freeze, my gaze tracing him without permission. His muscles look even more defined than I imagined, his tan skin looks even more beautiful the more I see of it. The deep v at his waist makes my mouth go dry.
He catches me staring and smirks.
“You’re going to need to stop looking at me like that,” he says lightly, “or I’m going to start thinking you like me.”
He winks, grabs a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, and disappears back into the bathroom.
I turn back to face the TV, suddenly too warm, my cheeks burning. My heart is racing, and I know I need to calm down before he comes back out of the bathroom. Sitting there in the quiet, I drag my palms over my pants, trying to get rid of the clammy feeling.
A moment later, he comes out and sits down right beside me on the couch. He pulls out his phone and starts checking his email. From everything I’ve seen on TV, and read in books, attorneys don’t really do downtime. They’re always working.
He lets out a breath, almost a sigh of relief.
Curiosity gets the better of me. “What happened?” I ask.
“The contract just got signed for the building,” he says. “The last-minute deal was apparently crap.”
“That’s great,” I say. I have no real understanding of how property deals work, so I assume it means the other offer wasn’t serious. Still, an uneasy thought creeps in, something I hope isn’t true, that something else might have been done to make sure the deal went through.
“What?” he asks.
Great. He senses it.
“Nothing.”
“Hey.” He reaches out and tilts my chin up so I have to look at him. His touch is soft, cool—nothing like the roughness I expect. “Not everything we do ends with someone getting shot or beaten,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”
“Okay,” I say, breathlessly.
He doesn’t let go of my chin. Instead, he keeps my gaze locked on his. The buzzer on the TV sounds, the crowd erupts. Judging by the noise, either a buzzer-beater just happened or there’s been a huge upset. I start to turn my head to see what happened.
A gentle tug stops me.
My chin lifts again, guiding my attention back to him. He’s closer now. Close enough that I can feel his breath against my skin. His eyes flick from mine to my lips, then back again. My breath catches for a heartbeat.
Then his lips meet mine.
The kiss is soft and warm, nothing rushed, nothing rough. I’ve kissed before, but this feels different. It feels forbidden. Before I can pull away, his hands move to my neck and the kiss deepens, still controlled but unmistakably intense.
My fingers curl into his T-shirt, drawing him closer without thinking. The kiss grows slower, stronger, more consuming, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this might be the point of no return.
After what feels like hours—but is probably only a minute—we finally break apart. We’re both breathing a little heavier than before. I look at him, my pulse still racing, and to ease the tension, I let out a soft laugh.
“Gino is going to be so pissed we just kissed.”
“If I remember correctly,” he says, smiling, “I’m the one who kissed you. So, I’ll probably take the brunt of whatever anger he has.”
He laughs, low and rough, and the sound sends warmth straight through me. His hands stay at my neck, steady and warm, before his gaze drops briefly, thoughtfully—like he’s weighing something he hasn’t decided yet.
I’m pretty sure he’s wondering whether crossing any more lines with his best friend’s sister, the one he barely knows, is worth what it might cost.
I make the decision for both of us. I pull my hands away from his shirt, and after a beat, he removes his hands from my neck. I turn back toward the TV, putting distance between us before I lose my nerve.
“Would you like a beer?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
“Sure.” There’s a pause. “Be honest—you hated that, didn’t you?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I head for the kitchen, avoiding his gaze as I grab two beers from the fridge and twist both caps off. When I turn back toward the living room, he’s standing there, blocking my path.
“I asked you a question, Vanessa.”
I look up at him, my pulse thudding. “I– I–”
“I don’t like it when people don’t answer me.” His voice drops, low and firm, not raised but unmistakably intimidating. “Answer the question.”
“No,” I say after a breath. “I liked it. I just didn’t want you to think less of me, or have it come between you and Gino.”
“For one,” he says, “I don’t think you’re easy at all. Not even close. And Gino isn’t going to kill me over kissing you.” A corner of his mouth lifts. “Trust me—he’d probably rather you are kissing me than anyone else.”
It looks like he’s about to say more, but instead he closes his mouth and walks back to the couch, taking a long sip of his beer. I follow a moment later, but this time I choose the chair instead.
He glances over at me. “Why are you sitting all the way over there? I think we’ve established I don’t bite.”
“I—” I hesitate, heat creeping up my neck. “I just didn’t think you’d want me sitting next to you after… well—”
He cuts me off. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. Come here and sit down.”
I don’t move. My gaze drops to the floor, my nerves locking me in place.
He sets his beer aside and stands, his expression tightening with something dangerously close to frustration. He reaches for my hand and pulls me up, then guides me over with him as he drops back onto the couch. I land against him, settled firmly on his lap before I can protest.
The closeness is overwhelming. It’s too much and not enough all at once. His arm slides around my waist, steady and possessive, holding me there so I can’t move even if I want to.
My breath stutters.
“You see,” he murmurs quietly in my ear, his voice low and steady, “I’m not a fan when people don’t listen to me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
The word sends a shiver down my spine. I swallow, my breath catching.
“Are you scared of me right now?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Good,” he says. “You shouldn’t be. I’m here to watch over you—to protect you.”
His arm loosens around my waist, giving me space. I take the opportunity, shifting away and settling onto the couch beside him instead. My heart is still racing, but I need the distance, even if only a little.
We sit quietly, sipping our beers and watching a college basketball game. The tension lingers between us, thick enough that I know I need to break it—especially since I’m the one who created it.
“So,” I say lightly, glancing his way, “since you seem to know so much about me… tell me about you. Considering, you know, like you said, I’m kind of stuck with you.”
“I didn’t say that,” he snickers. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “Maybe how you and Gino became friends. Where you went to school. That feels like a good place to start.”
“Well, Gino and I became friends when we were toddlers. Back when your dad was gone,” he says.
“Not gone but with you. You know what I mean.” A small smile tugs at his mouth.
“We did everything together. Baseball, basketball, soccer. He’s two years older than me, but we still did everything together. We grew up like brothers.”
He pauses, then continues more quietly. “When your dad came back after your mother died, he realized how close we were. My parents kind of became second parents to him.”
I guess Gino and I have that in common, dad putting us on someone else’s plate to raise.
“I went to college and then law school in New York,” he adds.
“I’m guessing Ivy League?” I tease. “Clearly you’re a genius.”
He snorts. “Eh, not really. I just worked my ass off. I was never the partying type, and I’m still not. I stayed focused.” He shrugs. “I knew from a pretty young age I was going to be a lawyer and work with Gino.”
“Sounds like you’ve had everything figured out for a long time,” I say. “I wish I could do that.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I ask, immediately regretting the words. Shit. What did I say?
“That thing where you talk like you’re somehow less than me,” he says. “Vanessa, you’re smart. You know what you want.” His gaze holds mine. “That’s… really attractive.”
“Uh—what?” I blink.
“I’m just saying,” he adds quickly, “don’t underestimate yourself.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What do you mean?”
I hesitate for a half second before the words slip out. “You think I’m hot?”
“Very. Very fucking hot.”
I can feel his gaze on me now, heavy and intent, and for one terrifying second, I’m convinced he’s about to kiss me again. The room suddenly feels too small. Too charged.
I need to get out of here.
I set my beer down a little too quickly and all but bolt for my bedroom, closing the door behind me before I can overthink it. My heart is racing as I lean back against the door, breathing hard, trying to calm myself after what was very clearly an inappropriate moment with my brother’s best friend.