“Oh, I don’t know—some guy in a suit sitting in the waiting room every shift I work, watching me. You’re asking for security to kick you out.”
“I could also wait outside,” I suggest.
“That sounds uncomfortable and completely unnecessary. And how are you supposed to do your job?”
“Since I work for your brother, most of what I do happens during the day, so it won’t interfere. And I don’t think he’s expecting me around as much right now.”
“When would you sleep?” she asks.
“I can power nap.” I wink at her.
“Power naps are not a long-term solution,” she says sarcastically.
“Eh, I’ll manage.”
We pull into the garage beneath her building, then walk the half block to the entrance. She waves at the desk attendant, who looks at her a little too long for my liking, and we ride the elevator up to the twenty-second floor.
SEVEN
VANESSA
We arrive at my apartment and step inside. I wave at the desk attendant, briefly considering whether I should tell him Mateo is a friend staying with me, but I decide against it. Mateo and I ride the elevator up wordlessly, the awkwardness from his apartment still lingering between us.
As we walk down the hallway and I unlock my door, I’m suddenly aware of how simple my apartment is compared to his. Smaller, quieter. That realization settles in fully when Mateo steps in behind me and closes the door, his tall frame and dark hair filling the space in a way that makes the apartment feel even smaller.
“It’s small. I know. I’ll sleep on the couch, and you can stay in my room. You’re taller than me, and I stay up all night anyway even on my nights off.”
“Not happening. This is your place, not mine.”
I move past him and head into my bedroom to change out of the clothes I borrowed from Juliet. I make a mental note to wash the dress before I return it. I pull on a pair of black pajama pantsand an oversized tie-dye T-shirt, comfort winning out over everything else.
When I step back into the living room, Mateo is sitting on the couch.
“You stay up all night even on your nights off?” he asks, his gaze locking onto mine. It feels less like he’s looking at me and more like he’s seeing straight through me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
“What do you do all night then?”
“Watch Netflix,” I shrug. “Or reruns of the games I missed.”
“What types of games?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“Basketball.”
“You’re a fan, huh?”
“Yes,” I say, not wanting to give him much more.
“Who’s your favorite team?” he asks.
I can tell he is trying to get to know me a little better.
“The Utah Jazz.” I try to stop the hint of a smile that curves my lips.
“Not a New York fan?” he chuckles.
“No. I grew up watching Jazz games, and they’re one of only two pro teams in Utah, so I naturally became a fan.”
