“So where do you want to start?” he asks, looking at me for direction.
“I normally go in a big circle. I start here and follow the store like a map.”
“After you,” Mateo says.
I walk past him and start grabbing produce, and he follows behind me. When I stop at the fresh fruit, I notice he still hasn’t picked anything up or asked me to grab something for himself.
“Is there anything you want?” I ask, raising a brow.
“No,” he replies easily. “You pick whatever we should eat.”
“That’s a lot to ask, considering I don’t know what you like or don’t like,” I say, my tone laced with attitude.
“I eat most things.”
“Do you?” I ask, skeptical.
He shakes his head in response.
“So if I cooked you something rotten,” I add dryly, “you’d eat it?”
“As long as it doesn’t kill me, I’d try it,” he says with a shrug.
I nod, unable to stop a small smile. We continue walking through the store, when Mateo finally reaches for something he wants—steak. After spending thirty minutes walking through the store, we head to the checkout. As we stand in line, Mateo leans closer and lowers his voice.
“I am paying for this,” he says. “This isn’t up for debate. I’m supposed to pay for everything.”
“Why?” I ask, turning to look at him.
He sighs, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s a part of my job to pay for things for you. Not because no one trusts you—it’s my responsibility to take care of you.”
I study him for a moment. “You’re making it sound like we’re in a relationship.”
He hesitates before answering. “We’re not,” he says carefully, “but in this world, it’s expected that men take care of women. Not to devalue them—but to make sure they’re safe.”
“Uh-huh,” I nod rolling my eyes, already knowing no matter what I say, he’s going to insist on paying.
We check out and head back to my apartment. Of course, I’m not allowed to carry anything. Thankfully, it’s only a few bags, but I feel a little ridiculous walking next to him while he carries everything.
We get back to my building and make our way to my apartment.
We decide on steak for dinner, and while I put away the groceries, Mateo takes a shower. Naturally, my brain betrays me, drifting into thoughts of what he’s doing in there. As I start cooking, he steps back into the room with only a towel slung low around his waist. He moves toward the couch to grab some clothes, and I find myself staring—flat-out gawking at the muscles in his back.
Before I can tear my eyes away, he turns, catches me looking, and smirks. He actually smirks at me—then winks. Before I can say a word, he disappears out of the room to change.
By the time dinner is nearly done, Mateo wanders back into the kitchen and starts setting the table without asking where anything is. He must have looked through the cabinets when I wasn’t paying attention, already memorizing where things go.
He grabs two wine glasses, then the bottle of red wine we bought earlier, and suddenly this whole thing feels suspiciously like a date—even though I know it isn’t.
He sets two plates next to the stove while I finish sautéing asparagus in butter. I plate up the steak, potatoes, and asparagus, then hand him his plate.
As I sit down, Mateo fills my wine glass. I don’t usually drink on workdays, but considering I’ve taken a few days off, I’ll let myselfenjoy one.
“I guess it’s good to know you like steak dinners,” he says casually. “Now I know where to take you out to dinner.”
“Why would you take me out to dinner?” I ask, watching him closely.
“Because no matter what anyone says,” he replies, his mouth curving into a knowing smile, “you should still be able to eat out once in a while.”
