Page 12 of Before You Go

Recognizing Matthew’s car immediately, I wonder what he’s doing back here, since I haven’t seen him for a while and assumed he went home. As he comes to a stop in front of the steps, I check the passenger seat for his date. She’s not with him, so he probably dropped her off, likely so she didn’t miss her curfew.

I fight the urge to smile at the thought as he opens his door, waving off the kid who runs over to meet him.

“I thought you might need a ride,” he says, meeting my gaze over the roof of his car, and I shake my head. Did he really come all the way back here to drive me home?

“Thanks, Matthew, but I’m okay. Dayton is giving me a ride home,” I tell him softly as a black, older model SUV pulls to a stop behind his car. The kid who took the piece of paper from Dayton hops out of the driver’s seat.

“Francisca,” my ex says, sounding frustrated, like I’m a spoiled child who refuses to listen. “I’d like for us to talk.”

“You can call me tomorrow,” I tell him as Dayton takes my elbow and helps me down the last steps.

Leading me to the passenger door of the SUV, he opens it for me and waits until I’m seated before he slams it shut and walks around the hood to the driver’s side, that is still open. Stopping there with his hand on the handle, he looks Matthew’s way. I can’t hear what is being said, but I know the look on my ex-husband’s face well as his mouth moves. He’s angry, and it’s not far-fetched to guess he’s giving Dayton some kind of warning.

“What did he say?” I ask Dayton when he opens the door wider and slides into his seat.

“Nothing important.” He puts on his seatbelt as Matthew peels away from the house.

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure I need to apologize on Matthew’s behalf.” I sigh, putting on my own seatbelt.

“Your ex is a dick, babe. That has nothing to do with you.”

“He wasn’t always a dick.”

Muttering something I can’t make out, he touches the screen up on the dashboard. “What’s your address?”

Rattling it off, I watch his brows drag together in the lights coming off the dash. “Is it too far out of your way?”

“No.” He meets my gaze. “I live at the same address.”

“What?” I frown, sure he’s messing with me.

“One of my brothers owns the building.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He looks over at me again, his gaze roaming my face. “I’ve never seen you there.”

“I only moved in a few months ago. Before that, I was just using the space as my studio to paint. And we probably haven’t run into each other since I use the private entry for my apartment and rarely go through the building.”

“I forgot there’s an apartment on the first floor with its own entrance.” He drives through the gate at the end of my parents' driveway when it opens and turns onto the main road.

“That’s one of the reasons I rented that space. I get deliveries and ship my paintings pretty often, so having street access makes that much easier.”

“You’ll have to show me some of your work.”

“I’m not sure you’d find any of it very impressive.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s flowers and tiny bugs and butterflies. I’m no Da Vinci.”

“I read a news article a few weeks ago about a guy who sold a banana duct-taped to a canvas for over two million dollars and thought that was impressive.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re not hard to impress?”

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