Page 39 of Fighting

“Go away, Matty.” I’m fuming, but he’s looking at me like I’m an adorable little bunny.

“What happened back there?” His gaze lingers, like he’s examining me.

Hit with a wave of shame for my outburst, my cheeks heat. I’m not sure how much I want to share.

Professional Nessa would tell me to be vulnerable and give Mateo a chance to prove that he’s not like my ex. Unfortunately, Impulsive Nessa is in the driver’s seat tonight, and she simply glares at him.

Finally, the light turns green, and I accelerate a little too hard, causing the tires to squeal. Tentatively, Mateo reaches one hand out, but he stops just short of touching my shoulder before retreating. I’m thankful for the space, and yet I long to feel comforted.

His words are slow and careful, almost fearful, when he says, “I have a few more weeks, right? You aren’t calling this? We’ll keep this up through the festival and keep working together?”

“Yeah, sure. Then you can run off and forget me and that any of this happened.” I inhale deeply, holding back a scoff. I pull into Stef’s driveway and throw the gearshift into park.

Mateo cups my chin and tips my face in his direction. “Never. There is no way I’d forget you. You’re one of a kind, Nessa. Always have been. I couldn’t forget you if I was an old Lolo in khakis up to my armpits and a short sleeve button-down open to my undershirt.”

I frown, confused by the end of that statement.

“Even when I’m an old man, like my Lolo, my grandpa, I couldn’t forget you,” he clarifies.

My chest pinches painfully. I’m in trouble.

sixteen

Nessa

Mateo is tiedup in meetings with investors this week, so I take advantage of the alone time and use the spare key to pick up the binder.

I swear that’s the only reason I’m here. Okay, I also want to see how he’s changed the place. I’ve refrained from snooping when I visit, but I have no shame now that I’m here alone.

The baby blue plaid couch, blessedly, has not been replaced. It’s a close copy of the one fromFull House, and Stef loves to make a never-ending stream of jokes about her proximity to becoming a Tanner. I’m just shocked she hasn’t also added a bear in a trench coat to it.

With a sigh, I drop onto the cushions and open the binder. I knew he’d emailed everyone, but from the look of things, he’s done so much more than that.

Color me impressed.

He followed up in person with each local vendor, even taking notes about the visits that include a typed checklist of next steps with tick boxes beside each line. And, damn, he’s created a detailed map of the stalls with information on their preferences. Holy shit—this level of organization is sexy.

Though the last thing I want is to fall for this man, it’s hard to remember why when, as I snoop, all I find are spotless, sparsely decorated spaces. Even the bedroom is relatively unchanged other than the crisp white bedding and a tan throw blanket. There’s a masculine catchall on the dresser with a watch, a key fob, a few random buttons, and coins.

Lee’s art studio has been turned into a home office. This room is filled with more personal items than any of the others. Mostly sports memorabilia. A shrine to Jordan Clarkson, a replica pair of Robert Stephenson’s cleats from 2023, and some other items reflecting Filipino Americans in pro sports. Just about every item is accompanied by a plaque from one charity auction or another. Wow.

Dammit. None of this is helping me quell the attraction I feel for him. If I can’t be turned off, then I guess it’s time to make myself look a little less ideal. Pulling out my phone, I place a call.

“Hey Bea, it’s Nessa.” I don’t bother to fight my smile. “I wanted to confirm that we’re set for the overflow housing. I’m here now. Let me give you the address. I’ll have space cleared for everyone.”

An hour later,a large passenger van is parked on the curb, and Bea and Jim, as well as a few high school volunteers, haul items into the house.

“Shua!” I call out.

He comes my way, holding a soft carrier with a mesh front.

“Who is this?” I coo at the creature peering up at me.

“They don’t have names yet.” Shrugging, he walks past me.

“Aw, bubbale! We need to name these babies.” I baby talk to him and the animal in question as I follow him into the office space.

Jim and a few of the other teen boys have constructed a large closet-type thing, with silver dish pans at the bottom for litter and clear plexiglass fronts, creating three apartments for the cats.

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