We’re still holding hands as we order, and it’s only because of this that Mateo is able to swoop in front of me and pay for our meal before I can grab my wallet out of my purse.
I glare at him, and he only smiles at me after taking the receipt.
“I was going to split it with you,” I mutter as we walk to a window table.
He pulls out my chair and squeezes my hand one last time before letting go as I sit down across from him.
Mateo spears me with his golden-flecked chocolate eyes, his jovial face serious as he leans across the table toward me.
I can’t look away.
“I totally believe in your independence and ability to pay for your part of the meal. That isn’t what this is about. I’m not the type of man who lets a lady pay on a date. I value our time together enough to pay for the food you’re eating, and to want to give you this gift. Plus, you’re my fiancée. I’m paying. Fight me all you want, but you won’t win.”
My protests die a swift death. The sweet sentiment assuaged my feminine independence.
I feel valued by a man in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
This isnotgood. This isreallynot good. I can’t catch more than friendship feelings for Mateo. It’d mess up everything with his friendship with Alex if I did end our fake relationship.
I can’t fall for my fiancé.
But Mateo is making it really hard not to fall when he says things that heal my wounded heart.
Words have failed me, so I nod. Silence is our comfortable companion as we wait for our sandwiches. My fingers tap dance across the table, the feel of their tips hitting the metal distracting me from feelings. I shove down any trace of attraction to Mateo, even the ounce I feel at the fact he’s okay sitting in silence. I’ve had the impression he’d be a talker, filling all the silence between us. I’ve been pleasantly surprised to learn he understands the need for occasional quiet.
“Can we talk about the fine details of this arrangement?” he asks.
Oh yeah, we haven’t talked about anything besides what we said in our texts. I have it all outlined in my mind, but I probably should let him in on the plan.
“What questions do you have?”
He rubs his jaw, scratching at his scruff for a moment. “How long?”
I raise an eyebrow. “How long, what?”
He blows out a breath. “How long until we get divorced?”
I flinch. Divorce is an ugly word. It's something you use when a marriage is dead, but I feel like it’d need to be alive in the first place to use.
“I think we stay married for a year. Then we can file the separation paperwork. Everything should die down by then and Jorge will go away, especially if we can get this restraining order to stick. At that point, I can slip under the radar as the sister of Alexander Kingston whose marriage didn’t last long… But, between us, can we not call it a divorce?”
His lips quirk up in the corner. “As you wish.”
I groan and cover my eyes with my hands. “It’s just as corny in person as when you text it to me.”
His laughter rings out through the deli and I feel my cheeks heat beneath my palms as people glance our way.
“We can call our separation whatever you’d like, Holly.”
I drop my hands and meet his gaze. Our order number rings out, and Mateo hops up from his chair. He’s still chuckling when he comes back sandwiches in hand.
He hands me my chicken pesto caprese sandwich. I’m about to dig in when he clears his throat.
I look up. “What?”
He grins. “Can I say a prayer over our food?”
Guilt floods my system. I need to get better at this prayer thing, but it’s still so new and hard to break twenty-four years of not praying before eating. I set my sandwich down and fold my hands, bowing my head in agreement.
