Before I can even respond, he adds, “Julian and Victoria.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what I think of when I imagine kids.”
I laugh softly. “Wow. You really have it all planned out, don’t you?”
“Not all of it,” he says, “but some of the important things.”
“How did those names even pop into your head?”
“To be honest, I have no idea. They were just the first ones I thought of. I’m not saying I’m dead set on them.”
“You sounded pretty dead set a minute ago,” I tease. He smirks back at me, and I guess that settles it.
The rest of breakfast passes easily. We talk about growing up in completely different worlds and somehow end up discovering we both love basketball, which feels like a small miracle. When we’re done, Mateo takes my hand and walks me back down the street to the car.
He starts the engine but doesn’t pull out. My hands fidget in my lap, and I glance over at him, confused. He’s already looking at me, his gaze steady and intense.
“Wha—”
Before I can finish, he cups my face and kisses me. It’s nothing like the rough, hungry kisses we’ve shared before. This one is soft, slow, and so sweet it makes my chest ache. He pulls back reluctantly, like he doesn’t want it to end. When I open my eyes, he’s wearing a faint smirk.
“I know you said I had to work for it,” he murmurs, never breaking eye contact, “but I couldn’t help myself.”
“I guess I can let it slide,” I say with a smile.
“I want to finish this conversation at home,” he says with a smirk. I glance down and see the way his erection strains against his pants.
“Okay.”
He shifts back into his seat and pulls out of the parking space. As we drive, his right hand settles on my thigh. I look down, suddenly aware that I’m still in my scrubs and how badly I need a shower.
By the time we get back to the apartment, Mateo hasn’t stopped touching me. His hand drifts from my thigh to my lower back as we walk to the elevator. The doors slide shut, and he turns, boxing me in against the back wall.
“I don’t think I told you how gorgeous you look,” he says, his low voice holding my eyes.
“Uh, I probably don’t smell great,” I reply. “I haven’t showered, and I’m still in my scrubs.”
“No, you don’t smell,” he says. “And scrubs are a turn-on.”
“A turn-on? Really?”
“Yeah. I think it’s hot that my wife is a professional and doesn’t want me to be the only one who works.”
“You’re such a feminist,” I tease.
“Damn right I am.”
The elevator opens on his floor, and he takes my hand like he needs to make sure I’m still there. After only a few weeks with him, I already feel like I never want to let him go. I’ve always been independent, but maybe relying on someone wouldn’t be so hard.
We step into the apartment, and I start toward my room, but his hand closes around my bicep, turning me back to him. He leans down, his mouth brushing my ear as he whispers, “You don’t have to do everything on your own anymore.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Because every time I compliment you, you shut yourself down,” he says. “Do you think I’m lying when I tell you you’re beautiful, or when I do something nice for you? Can’t you see I’m trying to impress you?”
“Impress me? I don’t think you need to do that.”
