“You should keep your hair down more,” someone says.
I jump, spinning toward the doorway to find Mateostanding 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 backwith 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 noticethe 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 skinlooks 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.
