Page 36 of Deep In Love
I make it three steps before I slam into a wall of concrete, also known as Mateo’s chest.
“Where are you going?”
He peers down at me with mirth.
By the minute, it becomes more difficult to deny my physical response to him. The way my pulse quickens when he walks into aroom, or how, when he rolls his sleeves up to display his forearms, my core clenches and my internal temperature spikes.
“Hiding from the cameras,” I whisper conspiratorially. He doesn’t need to know why I’m hiding, only that I am evading Doug and his recording device. Mateo’s tall; maybe he’ll let me use his body as a human shield.
“Why?” he whispers back, but the single word is full of understanding as he shifts to distance us from the group.
This is too much. This trip. His kindness. The cameras. My scars. It’s all too overwhelming. If we were at home, or hell, even just on land, I would run away. Hide until I could shove my emotions deep into the abyss and pretend they don’t exist.
Here I have nowhere to run, and Mateo continues to shine a light on all the emotions I’ve tried to hide away.
Mateo clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been staring. “Bruja,why are you hiding?”
It’s a question and a demand, and I fight the urge to curl in on myself, but still subtly cover the scars on my forearms. This morning I was daring, but right now I wantsafe.
Frowning, he moves so closely I can spot the speckles of gold in his irises. He blocks the rest of the room from view before whispering, “Do you want to go change?”
One question, asked with softness and understanding, and I nearly crack, the flood of emotion threatening to consume me. I’ve never grown comfortable with the scars. I wish I could say I wear them as a badge of honor, as a reminder that I fought and survived, but I can’t.
Every scar is a reminder of the weeks spent in a hospital. They represent whispered conversations between my parents about overdue medical bills. And though they’ve told me hundreds of times not to worry about the cost of my recovery, I know they had to cut into their retirement savings to support me. The scarcrossing my brow is a brutal reminder of the sacrifice and loss, one I’m forced to face every time I look in a mirror.
I shake my head, lifting my chin with more confidence than I feel, and if I were insane, I would say pride flickers across Mateo’s gaze. I cling to that asinine thought, moving to the center of the room to watch the video feed.
The ROV reaches the seabed, and Mateo and I work together to identify any organisms or points of interest while documenting the time stamp. We collaborate for the first half of the day, before taking shifts to complete the remainder of the time.
I’m on a solo shift, documenting sea pigs and, sadly, plastic debris, but whenever there’s a lull in the video feed, my mind wanders to Mateo, to the way he shielded me, saw my discomfort, and offered a solution.
He returns to the control center with Jett, sitting on the opposite side of the room at the small table and chairs. Every time he laughs or huffs, my concentration shifts from the video. I want to know why he’s laughing.
The jealousy strikes unbidden, and I physically recoil from its strength, knocking my phone and notebook onto the floor. It lands with a loud thud, and Mateo spins, concerned. My stomach flips and I nearly vomit.
What thefuckis happening to me?
“Charlie, are you all right?”
My name rolling off his tongue does wild, concerning things to my insides. I need to go somewhere far away, void of the sensual way he says it. Maybe I’ll plunge myself into the ocean to cool off.
“Going to the bathroom.” My voice squeaks at the end, and I increase the space between me and Mateo’s cologne, at least as much as possible on the boat.
If he was less attractive, mean, and inconsiderate, I would not have this issue. All he had to do was prove my theory that he was themighty ruler of hell. Instead, he threw my theory in the trash and revealed himself as endearingly sweet and mind-bogglingly hot.
This is Mateo’s fault.
By the time Mateo lies down on the bed, I’ve moved my arms into a dozen different positions. At my sides. Behind my head. Across my body like a corpse. I’m nervous and don’t know what to do with my limbs.
The pillow wall jostles as he settles beneath the covers. He’s so close I can barely breathe, afraid that a rogue puff will give away what thoughts are swimming around in my mind.
An arm flies over the barricade and I yelp, arms flailing. Mateo’s laughter is a deep rumble that caresses my skin.
Fuck.
I turn to peer over the pillows, and time slows. In the dim light, his irises resemble moss, illuminated by rays of sun peeking through the canopy. His lips tug upward, one side lifting higher than the other. The shadows of a beard have grown after the long day, and his hair, the color of rich, freshly brewed coffee, is messy.
It’s unlikely that many get to witness Mateo this way, unkept and mussed, worn down by the day. It’s special, I’d assume, that someone gets this version of him, and for some insane reason, I’m absorbed with the thought thatI’mthat person.
