Page 33 of Deep In Love
Amy: May I suggest an exploratory mission to the southern hemisphere of Mateo’s body with your tongue?
Undiluted panic takes over the function of my limbs, and I pitch my phone across the bed. It bounces at the edge of the mattress and lands with a thud on the floor.
“I am going to kill her,” I whisper.
Why the hell is she awake? It’s two a.m. on the East Coast. Doesn’t she have better things to do than suggest I give Mateo a blowjob?
This is a work trip. Amy should exude some semblance of class. There will be no blowjobs. Zero. Zilch.Nada,as Mateo would say.
The man himself slides out of bed, a wry grin on his face as he retrieves my phone.
“You dropped this,” he says, then pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. He extends the phone, and his shoulders quiver from suppressed laughter.
“Don’t.”
He holds up his palms in surrender, and the hem of his shirt lifts, offering a sliver of golden skin and taut muscle. My cheeks flame, and thank Neptune and his big blue sea that it’s dark in here, or Mateo would witness the effect the fragment of skin has on my nervous system.
The bed dips as he gets comfortable, strapping the CPAP mask back onto his face. As the machine turns on, I hear him mumble, “Don’t forget to text Amy. She’s patiently waiting to hear about your scientific exploration.”
I whack him with one of the throw pillows.
Cocky asshole.
Chapter 11
Charlie
Can he move any fucking slower?
The muscles in my lower back ache from maintaining my uncomfortable position, and my joints scream in protest from the pressure on my hips and angles of my knees. A girl can only pretend to be asleep for so long, and my arthritis is telling me I’m reaching my tipping point.
A pillow beside me rustles, and I hold my breath, peeking over the covers. Mateo moves around the room, humming to himself as he shuffles through his shirts in the closet.
He turns, and I slam my eyelids shut.
Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t think.
As long as he believes I’m asleep, we don’t have to have a conversation about last night or any of the other tension-filled moments since we embarked. The bathroom door clicks shut, and once the water turns on, I fly out of bed to escape before he exits. I’ll greet the rest of the crew with horrifying morning breath before I face what may be happening between us.
If there’s no interaction between us, I don’t have to address Amy’s messages or how, when I woke up this morning, I was closer to Mateo than when I fell asleep. The pillow wall was still intact but barely holding itself up.
I slip on a pair of pants and a top, not bothering with matching, when a shiny blue wrapper glistens in my periphery.
I know the distinct color and can imagine the sweet caramel on my tongue, followed by the smooth dark chocolate. It’s placed on the vanity, my crystals and trinkets moved to surround it in a circle, with a note folded and tucked beneath a heart-shaped amethyst.
Have to keep up the tradition.
It’s scribbled in Mateo’s distinctive handwriting—messy and scrunched together, like his brain moves more quickly than his hand.
The tradition? What tradition?
It takes a beat to understand his meaning, but when it lands—when it becomes clear who’s been leaving these on my desk—it becomes difficult to stand.
My legs buckle, and I fall onto the edge of the bed, the sweet treat clutched in my grip and an uneasy sensation burrowing in my chest.
It’s a piece of chocolate, yes, but it’s so much more. It’s the daily kindness from Mateo I’ve never acknowledged. It’s the fact he leaves asecondone on bad days. Hell, it’s the notion he knows when I have bad days.
The piece of candy shakes in my grip.
