Mateo
I want your firsts.
Christ.
I’m still thinking about it the next morning. About how she’d looked in bed, her hair spread across her pillow and her expressive mouth drawn down in frown. She’d been so miserable, and I’d hated seeing her like that. If I’d been there, if she’d called me, I could have taken better care of her. I could have watched her to make sure she drank just enough to get the experience she wanted, but not too much that she’d regret it.
But still . . . what in the world had I been thinking when I said that to her? Regardless of what I want, that V-bomb she dropped is the number one reason I have to stay away from her. It was one thing to use her to forget Lina when I thought it could just be some mutual fun. Hell, even a short-lived relationship.
But to be her first? That’s some next-level shit, and I’d be a first-rate asshole if I let it happen. I probably should have guessed, but once she’d gotten into our kiss, she’d been anything but shy. Wishful thinking, I guess. I already feel like an asshole for taking things as far as I have. But every time I think back to those moments in the pool, I don’t feel guilty. I feel possessive and greedy and territorial, and I can’t help but think that I do want her firsts. Even if I don’t deserve them.
When I shake off those thoughts, I catch Brookes looking at me from his position on the recliner. I’m lying back on our couch, drinking a protein shake after my morning run. I don’t like the expression on his face, like he knows exactly what I’ve been thinking.
As if proving my point, he says, “So . . . Nell.”
“Is this a new game where we just say random people’s names? I’ll bite. So . . . Beyoncé.”
“Don’t play dumb, Teo. I’m not an idiot. There’s something going on there.”
“It’s called flirting. You should try it sometime. It might turn that frown upside down every once in a while.”
He rolls his eyes. “Give me a little credit, bro. I know you well enough by now to tell when you’re deflecting. There’s something different about this one for you.”
Knows me well enough. Bullshit. Brookes has always been like this, even when I’d known him a week. The guy has a gift for reading people. Comes in handy on the field or in the occasional pickup basketball game. In a roommate? It’s annoying as hell.
“So I like her. Do I really have to fucking sit here and analyze it with you? We gonna paint each other’s nails next? We could both get weaves and then braid each other’s hair. Maybe watch some My Little Pony. We’d make decent Bronies.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You done yet?”
“Not really. We could watch Titanic. Lament about how there was totally room for Jack on that door with Rose. He didn’t have to die, damn you, James Cameron!”
He sighs and stands. “Okay. I get it. You’re not going to talk about it. But do me a favor and think about this one. She’s not your usual type. You don’t know how to deal with girls like her.”
“I know plenty about girls like her, but thanks.”
“I’m just saying, she’s not the type to be happy with a quick fuck and an even quicker good-bye.”
“Jesus. How much of an asshole do you think I am? I like her. I genuinely like being around her. I can get to know a girl without having to sleep with her.”
“So . . . you’re just friends?”
“We’re just none of your business.”
Brookes lifts his hands in surrender. “Got it. I wasn’t saying anything about you, man. You’re a good guy. You two just live at different speeds, and I don’t want to see her get hurt trying to keep up with you. And if something like that did happen, I sure don’t want to see what this house will be like with Dylan and Silas pissed at you.”
“When are you going to start dating someone so I can ask you a bunch of annoying, intrusive questions?”
He only smirks in response.
It drives me fucking nuts that he’s always in the middle of everyone else’s business, but we know so little about him. But the dude’s super private, and I don’t have a weird intuitive superpower to just know what people are feeling. That would make my life a hell of a lot easier.
Twenty minutes later, I decide that Brookes is right. I am an asshole.
Because even though I should stay away from Nell . . . I can’t.
Which is why I’m standing on her porch now, coffee in hand, knocking on her door at ten thirty on a Sunday morning. Thank God Dylan is an early riser. She swung by the house about an hour ago to pick Silas up for some charity something or other. If I hadn’t already heard Silas say he was in love with that girl, I would have known it for sure this morning. Standing in the kitchen, he looked exhausted and ready to murder anything that moved. But when Dylan let herself in, the big guy practically melted at her feet.
I raise my fist to knock on Nell’s door again, but hesitate.
I watched Dylan wrap Silas around her finger this morning, and I’m allowing practically the same thing to happen to me, except I’m not in a relationship. I’m not in love. I’m not looking for a future with Nell.
So why can’t I just walk away like Brookes wants me to? Why can’t I chalk it up to a hot make-out session that’s never going to go any further, and cut my losses? Why can’t I do that?
The door opens, and my stomach dips at the sight of Nell’s bleary eyes and rumpled hair. She squints at me, and then winces at the sunlight, instinctively taking a step back into the house.
I step in after her without waiting for an invitation, and shut the door firmly behind me.
“I brought coffee,” I say, lifting the tray up into her line of sight.
“Shhh!” She holds one hand up to me and the other to her forehead.
“I think,” she says, her voice raspy, “there’s a herd of elephants in my head.”
“Welcome to the world of hangovers, sweetheart.”
She blinks at me, then says matter-of-factly, “I’m going back to bed.”
She shuffles down the hallway, and I follow her, still holding the coffee carrier and resisting the urge to laugh. Then she swings her bedroom door wide, and doesn’t bother to close it before tumbling headlong into her bed. Again, I take that as permission, closing the door in case Dylan comes home unexpectedly.
Before Nell can slip back into sleep, I force the coffee into her hand.
“Drink a little of this,” I tell her. “It’ll help clear up the headache and nausea.” She doesn’t look like she believes me, but she takes a sip anyway. “Aspirin will help, too, if you have some.”
“Bathroom,” she says, and I go out to the hallway bathroom. I find a bottle in the second cabinet I open.
When I return to her room, she asks, “You find it?”
“I did. Right next to your box of tampons. The things I endure for you, woman.” She rolls her eyes and takes the aspirin, and she drinks about half the coffee before placing the cup on the nightstand and sinking back against her pillows. She must be feeling better because she finally asks the question I’d expected to hear the second she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
I shrug, toe off my sneakers, and throw myself down on the covers on the other side of her bed. She groans when the mattress bounces, but other than that doesn’t complain.
“I knew you’d be miserable this morning . . .”
“And you decided that was something you needed to see?”
“I decided I could be of some help. I’ve had more than my fair share of hangovers. When that coffee kicks in all the way, we’ll get you showered and dressed, and then we’ll go out for some greasy breakfast. You’ll be good as new in no time.”
“You’ve done this more than once? Are you crazy? I never want to drink again.”
“Everybody says that. If you don’t, you’re not doing it right.”
“I don’t feel like I did anything right.”
“You checked another thing off your list, didn’t you?”
She throws an arm over her eyes in lieu of an answer, and after a minute or so of silence, she asks, “Why are you really here?”
“I told you, I—”
“If you feel sorry for me because of what happened last night or what I said, don’t. Please. I’d really rather you just leave.”
“I can’t do that. Sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because last time I let you get away from me, you called some giant ginger-bearded monster to get you drunk, and look how well that turned out. Face it. You need me.”
She makes a groan that sounds vaguely laughlike. “Matt is not a monster.”
“We’ll agree to disagree.”
She sighs, and rolls on her side to face me. I suck in a breath because even hungover, she’s beautiful. And that fiery, challenging look in her eyes always goes straight to my cock.
“And if I had wanted to call you?” she asks. “I don’t have your number.”
“You could have just thought of me. I would have known and come running. I’m practically a superhero in that regard.”
“Riiight.”
“Why so disbelieving? Unless you thought of me, and it didn’t work? Were you thinking of me last night, girl genius?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“I thought about you. Even during the game last night when I should have been concentrating on not getting my ass kicked, you kept popping up. I think I might be addicted to you, Antonella De Luca.”
“How do you know my full name?”
“I might have done a little snooping last night while you were out of it. So you were valedictorian in high school, huh?”
“Just how much snooping did you do?”
“Relax. Your list is safe. I promised I wouldn’t read it, and I didn’t.” My eyes drop to her lips, which she keeps pressing together in what I assume is nervousness. “It was tempting, though.”
All of her is tempting, and I should probably get out of this bed right now before I drag her beneath me and remind myself just what her skin tastes like.
Regretfully, I pull myself up to a sitting position and say, “All right. Go shower so we can get breakfast. Unless you need assistance, then I’d be happy to—”
She cuts me off. “No. No, I think I can handle that alone.”
“Pity,” I say. “Well, I’ll be here waiting in your bed in case you change your mind.”
She stands up and faces me, still all cute and rumpled from sleep. “You are so . . .” She trails off, and shakes her head, turning for the door instead.
As she heads for the bathroom, I call out, “I’m so what? Charming? Devastatingly handsome?”
“You so better be in the living room by the time I’m done with my shower.”
Damn. I’d been looking forward to seeing her in a towel.
Next time.