CHAPTER TEN
ELIZABETH
I’M NOT PARTICULARLY PROUD OF myself.
When my father said that Mateo would be coming to this, my first instinct was to put his ass to work. It’s a solid way to make the best of a bad situation. Knock him down a peg while giving the room some extra brainpower. Mateo is smart. PEZA’s business model breaks the mold, and his systems are truly unique — built by Mateo personally from what I understand.
I hate him for buying the mountain out from under me, but there’s nothing I can do now. So why bitch? Why be catty? There’s no advantage there other than spite.
But of course, I saw him standing there with his righteous face and his I’ve-been-wronged attitude, and the claws came out. My parting words were particularly juvenile. I can’t help but see myself through his eyes. He’s already decided I’m a monster. Why am I giving him more ammunition?
Who cares? Let him think what he wants.
But the voice in my head doesn’t console me. I’ve let myself down. I’m smarter than this. I’ve dealt with difficult people before, and if The Pike ever gets built — though I have no idea how it will, now that the mountain is gone — I’ll deal with them again. Geniuses are often temperamental because they know why the people making the rules are dumber than them. My vision is mixed. It will nurture and harvest great minds, but it’ll be like corralling wild tigers.
Across the room, I look back. And there’s Mateo, checking out my ass.
I consider storming back and demanding that he keep his eyes to himself, but I dismiss the idea immediately. That’s letting him win. He wants to ogle me? Fine. Let him. I’ve got the upper hand as long as I don’t give in — pretend I don’t see it, or that it doesn’t bother me at all.
But all along, I’ve seen it.
Just now, when we were toe to toe, his eyes kept ticking down as if curious about what’s under my shirt. Just like at lunch, when I was wearing a dress. I’m a restless sitter; I have to keep shifting positions. He looked down every time I crossed my legs. Like a pervert on the playground.
I’m suddenly very aware of my body. I feel his eyes on me. But what’s worse, his attention is evoking a response. A completely unintended, unwanted reaction. I’m antsy. My skin, everywhere, is warmer than it should be. My jeans are too tight — like I’m trying to show him my ass, like they’re riding too high so the crotch rubs me down the middle.
I need a bathroom. To splash water on my face or something.
I hit the restroom but resist the urge to splash. My makeup will run, and I hate that frizzy thing that happens along my hairline when I accidentally get some of my hair wet.
I stare my reflection in the eyes. Then I walk out, less furious and flustered than I was.
Fuck you, Mateo Saint.
The hackathon rolls through its gears. I check in on a few groups, but whatever they’re doing is over my head. But in one I recognize some of the terms, so I text Blake to see if she knows what they mean — if this group is working on something as cool and game-changing as I think it is.
Blake texts back: DUNNO BITCH, LEAVE ME ALONE.
I guess it’s nap time.
At two, the panel takes to the front table. Mateo, I’m surprised to see, is one of the first to take his seat. There’s a little paper tent with each panelist’s name, and I was 50/50 on whether the one we’d printed for Mateo would go to waste. He’s playing with it now, looking sullen. I’m in the corner. He can’t see me. I’m sure if he knew I was watching, he’d look even worse. Probably like the Hulk.
My ire rises. I force myself to calm. He’s sitting there, fiddling with a name tag, looking like he’d rather be in hell than here. He’s doing as I asked, and right on time. Fuck him. But, for some reason, he’s trying. I should, too. My father was right: Mateo strikes both of us as a man with strong emotions, but someone who’s ultimately sensible. He’s intelligent and forward-thinking. Maybe if I decide to share my ambitions, he will see the smarts inside them.
I spy Mateo from my hidden vantage point, watch him as he places the pen between two fingers and twirls it. The barrel ducks between his index and middle finger, then between middle and ring. When it hits the pinky’s edge, he peaks his fingers so it can swing all the way around, back between index and middle again.
Around. And around.
It’s several spins before I realize I’m in a trance, and just a little calmer by the time I snap out. He has excellent hands. Strong hands. It’s a curious skill he’s built for himself — spinning a pen through his digits, like how my uncle Joe could roll a quarter across his knuckles.
What caused the billionaire to slow down and learn a dexterity trick like that? Was he in college at the time? In a conference with executives — more a bored room than a boardroom?
Mateo looks up. I see his eyes. He doesn’t know I’m here until we’re both looking at each other, so for a split second I see what must be his usual face. So far, I’ve seen only the same twisted, aggravated expression.
This is something else.
Mateo knows that he caught me staring, and I’m too surprised to compose a reaction. For a long moment, we face each other. I’ve been looking; he’s looking now. Just two people and nobody knows we’ve connected.
I feel my flush return. That warmth.
And then he looks away, but the sensation stays behind.