Page 165 of Matteo

Chapter 39

ELIZABETH

Matteo looks like a mess.

My anger melts as soon as I see him. Dark shadows along his jawline tell me he hasn't shaved in days and the dark circles under his eyes, he hasn't slept much either. His clothes are wrinkled, like he’s worn them for days.

This is not the man I know.

I hate even more that as soon as I walk into Matteo’s office and see him all my carefully assembled anger frays at the edges because God, I’ve missed him.

I want to ask if he's eaten, if he's okay, if seeing his mom gave him the answers he was seeking. I want to reach out and touch his face, wrap my arms around him but I can’t do any of that.

I have to be strong. I'm not here to declare my feelings for him.

That's gone, maybe forever, because once I prove my innocence, I have to ask myself: does he deserve to be with me, when he doubted me?

I deserve better. So I lock every soft feeling away and lift my chin as I face him.

“Are you going to suspend me, or fire me?”

For a nano second, surprise skims across those green-brown irises and it tells me that he wasn't going to do either. I wonder what he's playing at, whether his father knows, and who else.

“I want you still working here, under surveillance, while I review things.”

I feel a burst of relief, because I wasn't expecting this. “Sure.” This is good news for me, because this is exactly where I need to be to prove that I'm not behind this.

He gestures toward the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”

I hold my ground. “I’d rather stand.”

He tilts his head, but his expression is unreadable. “Fine.”

The silence stretches as we quietly assess one another. I'm hyper aware of everything that's happened between us. Of the fact that I've been in his bed, that he's been inside me, that I've rained kisses on his tattoos and learned the shape of his body in the dark.

Now here we are, talking like people who no longer trust one another.

I hate it.

“I didn’t do this,” I say. The words sound stronger and steadier than the way I feel.

Matteo doesn’t answer straight away, but his dark eyes meet mine. He’s sitting at his desk, his collar slightly open, looking unkempt.

Not smiling.

Did I expect him to?

I wasn't sure what to expect, but I really can't tell if he's surprised to see me. He doesn't seem fazed, and when his eyes meet mine and hold, I'm the one who clasps her hands together.

“That’s what I'd expect you to say.”

I feel like someone's standing on my chest because it's suddenly gotten harder to breathe. He's not even giving me a chance to launch a defense. He doesn't even think I'm innocent.

“You don’t believe me.”

He turns away slightly, as if the accusation is too uncomfortable for his ears.

“I didn’t say— “