Page 132 of Matteo

“That’s Vlad,” she says, wearily, sitting on the sofa, pulling the lapels of her robe closer together, like she needs to shield herself from me. Like she wants to be anyplace else but here with me.

I walk towards her, but don’t sit down. I don’t want to encroach on her private space.

“It's just that ... you seem nervous around him,” I say, quietly.

“I’m not nervous. I feel awkward.”

“I’m sorry for what I said.” I sit down, leaving a large gap between us. “We were in the moment, and your ex turning up was the last thing I expected.”

“He’s not my ex!”

“Then why does he strut around like he owns you?”

“He owns me?” She stares at me, incredulous.

Wrong word. I can't shake the vibes he was giving.

“I’m sorry. I'm an asshole for thinking the worst.” I drag a hand through my hair, desperate to fix this. “I feel hurt and angry because you change the subject whenever I ask about him. Like he’s a secret I have no right to know about. But the more you avoid talking about him, the more questions I have.”

I shake my head.

“And then we get here, and there’s a chauffeur waiting at the airport for you. And then this ridiculous suite. He walks in like he owns the damn place, Elizabeth. Everything about it feels like some grand gesture.”

Elizabeth watches me, her mouth set into a hard line, but saying nothing.

I realize my words came out harder than I intended. “I was fine flying commercial. I was fine not taking the jet. I don’t like taking it, I just thought it might make things easier, give us more time together, that’s all. But this …” I gesture around the room. “It made my blood boil. How can it not?”

She lets out a long exhale, pushes her bangs back from her forehead, a habit I’ve noticed whenever she’s frustrated or trying to find the right words.

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not. He’s like an older brother to me.”

The tension drains from my body so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “A brother?”

“Not a real brother ...” she says quickly. “But close enough.”

I missed that angle completely. The idea that he was only looking out for her.

“He shouldn’t have turned up like this,” she says, her voice quiet, like she's physically and emotionally exhausted.

“Why did he turn up at all, and our door so soon after we landed?”

“I gave him our flight details.”

Which would explain the guy who picked us up being there. “He obviously couldn’t wait to see you.”

“Or you,” she says, placing her hands on her knees. “I’m sure he’s also curious about you.”

“Why’s he curious about me, if you weren’t lovers?” I examine her face closely.

“He always looked out for me. Always.”

“Like a stalker.”

She rolls her eyes. “You really don’t like him, do you?”

I shrug. “He hasn’t given me a reason to like him.” As far as first impressions go, this guy couldn’t have made a worse impression if he tried. And his reputation preceded him, which didn't help. Call me biased.

“He’s not stalking me. It’s not like that. He’s getting married,” Elizabeth insists. I sense that she’s desperate for me to like him. For me and him to get along.