Whatever distance crept between us these past few days, this cracked it open. It doesn’t fix everything. We still need to talk. But it’s a start, and I’ll take what I can get.
“I have to get back out there.” I rake my fingers through my hair, silently praying I don’t look as thoroughly fucked as I feel. “Travis can’t handle the bar alone yet. He barely knows where we keep the limes.”
Matteo’s expression darkens like a cloud passing over the sun. “I’m staying. Someone needs to watch that guy.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads through my chest. The possessiveness probably shouldn’t make me feel so giddy, but after days of him being distant and closed off, having him act like a jealous caveman feels like progress. “Leave him alone. You’ve already traumatized the poor guy. He nearly dropped a bottle of Grey Goose when you walked in.”
“He was staring at your ass.”
“I’m a bartender, Matteo. Men look at me constantly. It’s basically in the job description.”
His eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “Names. Give me names.”
I’m still laughing as I reach the storeroom door, but the image of that bandage flashes through my mind and the laughter dies in my throat. I turn back to face him.
“Wait.” I stop in the doorway, reaching for his shirt. “Let me see that wound.”
He steps back. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Bullshit.” I plant my hands on my hips, channeling every ounce of stubbornness I possess. “You said later. Guess what? It’s later. What happened?”
The words come out sharp, and I realize with a little jolt of surprise that I’m not even slightly afraid of him right now. Nottiptoeing around his mood or bracing for an explosion. I’m just standing here, demanding answers from a man twice my size who literally kills people for a living.
When did that happen? When did I stop being scared?
Something warm flickers in his eyes, like maybe he noticed the same thing.
He sighs, the fight draining out of him, and slings an arm over my shoulders as he steers us toward the hallway. “The night Santino died. I was there. Caught an injury.”
“What kind of injury?”
“A minor...” He pauses. “Stabbing situation.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor and keeps going.
“You were stabbed?!”
His gaze darts around the empty hallway like he’s hoping for an escape route. “I’m fine.”
“Then why hide it from me?”
“Because it happened right after your brother got hurt.” His voice softens, just a little. “You had enough on your plate without worrying about me, too.”
I want to yell at him. I want to shake him until his teeth rattle and maybe smack him upside the head for good measure. But his reasoning, in its gruff and emotionally constipated way, is actually kind of sweet. He was protecting me. Badly, and in a way that made me feel shut out and alone, but the intention was there.
“Don’t do that again,” I say firmly. “Don’t keep things from me because you think you’re protecting me. I’d rather know and worry than be kept in the dark.”
He nods once, which I decide to count as agreement. It’s the best I’m going to get from him right now.
The rest of the shift passes in a blur of cocktails and customer small talk. Matteo parks himself at the end of the bar, nursing sodas and glaring at Travis with enough murderous intensity to make the poor guy’s hands shake every time he has to walk past. I mouth “sorry” at Travis approximately seven hundred times, but he still looks like he’s considering a career change.
When the kitchen closes at midnight, I bring Matteo a plate of chicken wings as a peace offering. He switches to water after that, and every time I catch his eye across the bar, something warm passes between us. A shared joke. A secret.
I’d forgotten how much I missed this. The easy flirtation, the weight of his attention, the way his gaze tracks me across the room like I’m the only person in it. The past few days without it felt cold. Empty. I hadn’t realized how much space he’d carved out in my life until he started pulling away.
By the time my shift ends, exhaustion is dragging at my bones like weights. It’s after three in the morning when we get back to his place.
We end up in the living room, and I’m bracing myself to push him into talking, rehearsing different approaches in my head, when he beats me to it.
