Page 64 of Faded Gray Lines
“As will I,” he clipped, his arms tensing. “That’s why I’m here.”
Of course, the Carrera Cartel. It’ll always be about the cartel.
“Right...” I took a deep breath, my stomach choosing that particular moment to growl. Ignoring its protests, I continued. “I didn’t agree to cooperate with the DEA just for Brody and myself. They promised to—”
A shrill ring cut off the rest of my confession, and we both glanced down as Mateo pulled his phone from his pocket. I caught a quick flash of the text—a series of nonsensical letters and numbers.
“Damn it,” he swore, shoving the phone back in his pocket. “I have to go.” He stepped closer, and I held my breath, pinching my lips together as his hand cradled my cheek. “Meet me at the townhouse later.”
“Why?”
“Food, little lamb. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s that thing that keeps us alive.” He trailed his fingers down my neck, running the pad of his thumb across my collarbone before turning toward the door.
* * *
“Not a fan of pasta carbonara?” Mateo twirled his fork while eying my untouched food from across the dining room table.
I placed my fork in the middle of my plate. “It’s fine. Delicious, actually. I just...well, how did you learn how to cook Italian like this?” I hated the concerned lift in my voice.
Concerned, my ass. Petty was more like it.
Mateo’s lips quirked in his own private amusement. “That’s a little politically incorrect, don’t you think?”
“Well, I—”
“What, because I’m Latino, I can’t cook Italian food? You expected tacos maybe?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He leaned forward, studying my face with a satisfied smile. “You’re blushing. You’re really upset, aren’t you?”
His mocking tone horrified me. “No! I just meant that...forget it.”
Content with his discovery, he sat back in his chair and twirled another forkful of pasta. “To answer your question, one of my Houston neighbors was Italian. She used to bring me casseroles all the time, and eventually, I asked her to show me how to make them.”
“Oh, I see.”
“We spent hours together,” he continued, much to my horror. “Sofia was the best—so patient and kind. I miss her a lot.”
I’d heard enough. Shoving my chair back, I gathered my plate and turned toward the kitchen. “Well, she certainly taught you well.”
“Are you jealous, Leighton?” he asked, grabbing my wrist.
“Me? No. Why would I be jealous? She was special to you. I get it.”
“She was also eighty-four years old when she passed away.”
The plate fell out of my hands, crashing onto the floor and splashing cream sauce all over my white dress. “I’m sorry?”
“You’ve got to start trusting me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “I’ve never had that type of connection with anyone. Not after you.”
I couldn’t let myself believe it. Once upon a time, my choices only affected me. Things were different now, and I couldn’t allow what should’ve been to dictate what was.
Manners required me to stay and clean up my mess. Manners could kiss my ass. “Thank you for dinner, but it’s getting late. I should be going.”
Instead of letting me go, he tightened his hold on my wrist. Mateo’s easygoing demeanor faded, the cartel boss in him taking over. “What were you saying earlier? Something about you not agreeing to cooperate with the DEA for just you and Brody.”
“It’s not important,” I said, shaking my head. “I was flustered.”
