Page 102 of Matteo

“A love like that,” she says softly, “… is timeless and precious and everlasting.”

I don’t say anything, because it’s alien to me. I’ve not seen love like that before. I’ve not witnessed my parents around each other. Rio says they were happy, once upon a time, before the dirty secret came out, but I don’t really remember it.

In my world, love has always been a transaction. Wrapped around money. Marriage for alliances. Relationships for appearances. Loyalty for power. Silence for money.

I pause for a second. What I’m seeing now is something else.

And then it hits me.

My brothers. They have something like this, most of them. They seem genuinely happy in their relationships even though we've all shared the same disrupted childhood.

I look away. Maybe it's not outside the realm of possibility for me to have something like that, either.

I shake my head, unsure and confused, as I watch Irene bite into a cookie. Arthur instinctively wipes the crumbs off her lips with a napkin. Maybe this is what love looks like.

Maybe.

Elizabeth has walked back over to them and is now laughing at something Irene said. Something inside me shifts. A new understanding. I think I’m already in too deep with her, even though we’ve barely begun.

“What?” she mouths, catching me watching her again. Arthur helps Irene to her feet, and they wander off, just as I go over.

“Nothing,” I say, lifting my shoulder. “I just didn’t know you did all this.”

Usually I'd be in the tech lab chasing down a problem. At the gym, or in the sauna. At one of Rio or Enzo's places. Doing something productive. Something measurable.

Instead, I'm standing in a senior center watching Elizabeth laugh with a room full of people who adore her.

I can’t remember the last time I spent a weekend as amazing as this.

Chapter 25

ELIZABETH

Matteo surprises me. I wasn’t sure how he’d be with all the seniors, but he’s a natural with everyone, with Arthur and Irene, and everyone he meets. The ladies like him and I notice he's getting quite a bit of attention. People keep asking me if he's my beau. I laugh. I don’t deny it and I don’t admit it. I just smile at them and keep them guessing.

I like having him here with me, and he’s taken to it very well. I keep reminding myself that this is my world, and that he comes from another universe; a different kind of life with different people. I'm certain this is the first time he's ever been around a big group of elderly people.

He looked at me strangely when I talked about Arthur and Irene. I didn’t mean to get so carried away and talk about love and how romantic these two are, but it occurs to me later, as we head home, that Matteo likely hasn’t seen this.

His relationship with his father is strained. He never talks about his grandparents, and I don’t know much about his mother, except that she’s in Italy. I have a mind to bring it up again when we get home later that evening.

We've just had dinner and he's helping me clear up. He hasn't made any move to leave, and when someone knocks on my door, he says it's for him. He's had a fresh change of clothes dropped off and then asks if I'd mind him staying another night.

Almost immediately, he reassures me that he's not trying to get into my bed or anything. He just likes being here. I like him being here, too.

“Is it odd?” he asks, rinsing the dishes. “Me asking to stay? Is it too soon?”

How sweet. The more I get to know him, the more I see that this man has a big, beautiful heart. He’s kind, caring and considerate.

“No.” I watch him wash the dishes and it doesn’t feel odd, and it's not too soon, because it feels right. What feels odd is that we haven't had sex. And that I want him so much.

He’s been walking around my apartment in a T-shirt, his tattoos on full display. The soft grey cotton stretching across his broad shoulders and hanging perfectly on his frame. It's impossible not to stare when he isn't looking. Not that I do a very good job of hiding it.

Last night when he fell asleep with his head in my lap, I was content to do nothing but run my fingers through his hair, listening to his steady breathing, and trying not to think about how right it felt.

This whole thing is a special kind of torture.

The touching. The lingering brushes of our hands. The lazy smiles. The kisses that start soft and sweet before deepening just enough to make my pulse race. Every time we begin to drift toward something more, one of us pulls back, and the pent-up frustration only worsens.