Page 97 of Matteo

I can't stop smiling, or replaying our day in Central Park. I can’t forget the kisses and hand-holding. And the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world.

And yet anxiety keeps creeping in around the edges, because this is new. Because I've never done this before.

I've had boyfriends. That's not it. What I’ve had in the past was never anything like this.

Also, despite how badly I want him here, I'm also painfully aware that I'm still on my period, still feeling bloated and crampy and decidedly unsexy.

To calm myself down, I make myself a cup of camomile tea. It helps me to sleep. I ask Matteo if he'd like a cup, and just as I expect, he wrinkles his nose and says no thanks. He's leaning against the counter watching my every move as I fill the kettle and pull a mug off a shelf. This is weird, but perfect, but also weird; Matteo in my kitchen gone eleven o'clock. Like he's part of my life now, and will soon be in my bed, only ... I can't do anything. I'm worried we'll end up making out, and that one thing will lead to another but … that’s not what worries me. I want to, but I’m still on my period and … I can't.

“You okay?”

“Yes!” Then I give a nervous giggle and tell the truth. “Not really. I’m panicking inside.”

“Why? Do I make you nervous?”

“No.”

He comes up behind me, his chest to my back. He feels so good, so warm, so perfect. I arch against him, as he drops tiny kisses along the back of my neck and his hands rest gently over my stomach.

This man is the best thing in my life. Ever.

I push away thoughts of him being my boss, of what happens when I leave. I try to enjoy what we have now. For tonight. For however many days we have.

The kettle makes a hissing noise as it reaches boiling point. When the hissing stops, Matteo moves away and pours the hot water into my mug. “Leave the teabag in?”

“Please.”

He hands me the mug and I suggest that we go and sit on the couch. He follows me into my tiny living room and we sit next to each other. I hold my mug. He stretches his long legs out.

It's quiet.

“This is nice,” he murmurs.

“But you’re not drinking anything,” I counter, taking a sip.

“This is nice. Being here with you. It’s peaceful and calm here.” He sounds like he needs this peace, and I recall how troubled he looked when I first saw him.

I take another sip of my tea and watch him. His head is back against the headrest, and his eyes are closed. Hands clasped and lying on his chest. I smile to myself. It feels wonderful to not be alone. To have someone I can sit with, and feel comfortable enough that we don’t need to make conversation.

I set my tea down on the coffee table and run my fingers through his soft tousled hair. He makes an appreciative noise, which makes me keep doing it. Today was a hard day for him. Hard decisions, for a hard father. No wonder he's torn and doesn’t know what to do.

“Where's your mom?” I ask, without thinking. I wish I could take those words back, because his eyes fly wide open, and he blinks a few times, like he’s lost his bearings.

“In Soave,” he says after a while.

I sigh with relief. For a moment I was scared that she might not be here anymore.

“Soave?”

His eyes close again. “In Italy.”

“Italy?”

“Mm-hmm.” He sounds like he needs to sleep. “Have you ever been?” he asks.

“No. But I'd love to. It’s on my bucket list.”

“On your bucket list?” he echoes. “I'm thinking of going to visit my mom. Why don't you come with me?”