Chapter Three
Mia
Isabella stands by my bed with her hair brush in hand, waiting for me. I pull on some pajamas and pad across the soft carpet, hopping up on the bed and patting it for her to join me. Handing me the brush, she climbs up on the bed and turns her back to me.
“I bet it was so much fun,” she tells me.
I run the brush through her hair, parting it in three sections. “It was really hot,” I tell her. “The sun down there is no joke.”
“I wanna go there someday.”
“We’ll take you. We’ve gotta be due for another family vacation soon. Maybe this summer.”
“He likes to take you more than us,” she tells me, causing my stomach to sink with guilt.
“That’s not true. He loves to go on family vacations; it’s just more hectic with everybody. I think sometimes your dad just needs some peace and quiet, you know? Just to calm down and not have any expectations of him. Everyone needs to unwind, and while family vacations are wonderful and we both love them, they’re just not as relaxing.”
“I wouldn’t have a lot of expectations, though. You guys could just take me and leave everyone else home.”
I gently rub her back. I know she just wants to be included. “I’ll insist we take you on the next one, how’s that? Maybe we could take you on a birthday vacation this year. Would you like that, instead of presents?”
Forgetting I’m trying to braid her hair, she turns to look back at me, her face lit with enthusiasm. “Yeah, I’d love that! Can I pick where?”
“Sure,” I say, since I’m apparently throwing out promises I have no authority to make.
“Can we go back to Paris? My mom loved Paris.”
God, Mateo hates Paris. This is going to cost me so many blow jobs. Good thing I like giving them. “I’ll ask,” I assure her, gently turning her head so I can resume braiding.
“You never met my mom, did you?”
I shake my head, forgetting she can’t see me. “Nope, I sure didn’t. I’m sure she was lovely.” I do not believe this at all. I hate Beth. But I’m certainly not going to tell her daughter that.
“Someone at my school said Daddy killed her.”
I freeze, stomach sinking. I try to draw in a breath, forcing my hands to move again, crossing one section of hair over the other. “That’s a horrible thing to say,” I offer, since I’m not sure what else to say. The story the kids know is that Beth just left, that she fell in love with another man and ran off with him. I never thought much about it until Meg pointed out that once they got older, they were bound to hear a much different version.
I thought we had longer, though. Isabella’s only nine. What nine-year-old says shit like that?
“Yeah. We used to be friends, but then his mom found out who my dad is and now he’s not allowed to be my friend anymore.”
Impulsively I drop her hair, wrapping my arms around her and hugging her. “I’m sorry, Bella. That’s…” I trail off, not even knowing how to finish it. I want to say awful, because it is awful—she can’t help who her father is. But I can’t completely blame the other kid’s parents, either. “Sometimes people can very judgmental and it isn’t fair,” I offer, since it’s the best thing I can come up with.
“He says my dad’s a bad guy,” she continues.
This is making me queasy. I’m not prepared for these conversations. I’m going to have to talk to Mateo about this tomorrow when I see him. I wish I could tonight, but since it’s our first night back from vacation, he had to spend it with Meg.
Then again, do I want him to know some little asshole in Isabella’s class is being mean to her? He tends toward the overly protective response, and the last thing any of us needs is for him to send someone to have a little chat with the kid’s parents.
Maybe I should handle it.
“What’s your friend’s mom’s name? Maybe I could have lunch with her and straighten all this out.”
“Veronica. I don’t have her number or anything though.”
“I’ll pick you up from school Monday,” I volunteer. “You can point her out to me—or at least your friend. Give me a first and last name and I can get the rest.” I’ll just ask Adrian.
“Okay,” she says easily, trusting me to fix it.
I smile a little and let her go, fixing the braid and finishing it up. Once it’s tied at the end, I tell her, “There you go, all done.”
She hops off the bed and goes over to my dresser, admiring her long, dark braid in the mirror. Then she comes back and jumps up on the bed, climbing up on the pillows beside me. “Will you show me the pictures now?”
“Of course,” I say, settling back into the pillows myself. “It’s mostly a lot of selfies since it was just the two of us. We went snorkeling. That was pretty awesome.”
“I wanna snorkel.”
I open up my photo album on my phone and start scrolling through. I keep the phone tipped away from her, only tilting it toward her when there’s an appropriate picture to share. Some of them are not appropriate. Those are my favorites. There’s one of Mateo in bed, not inappropriate exactly, just unguarded, a genuine smile on his face, the sun hitting him in just the right light. He looks so happy. I want to wallpaper my bedroom with that picture.
My door creaks open unexpectedly, and a few seconds later Mateo walks in. My heart speeds up, still, after four years, at him showing up unannounced. Is he staying with me tonight? It would be unprecedented after a vacation—he always spends the first night back with whichever one of us he wasn’t with, to be fair.
“Daddy,” Isabella says brightly.
“There you are,” he says. I feel a little disappointed that he was looking for her instead of coming for me, but I squash it and flash him a grin. Bonus Mateo time will never be complained about in this bedroom, whatever the reason.
“Mia’s showing me pictures of your trip,” she tells him.
“Oh, is she?” he walks around to his side of the bed, on the other side of Isabella, and climbs up beside her. She scoots closer to me to make more room, but he leans in to give me a kiss anyway. Isabella rolls her eyes like she doesn’t like it, but she’s smiling; she totally does.
“Yep,” she says, scrolling back to the last picture we were looking at. It’s a picture of us on the beach—not a selfie, but a full length picture. I asked a staff member to take one. “This one’s my favorite,” she tells him. “It looks like you’re getting married.”
I’m a little startled by that observation. I look at it again, noting the longer white dress I wore. He’s wearing shorts though—there’s no way in hell Mateo would ever get married in shorts, not even at a beach wedding. Hell, there’s no way he’d let me get married in a simple dress like that. He enjoys his shows too much to ever have a tiny wedding.
My pleasure droops a little, remembering I’m never going to be the one who gets the wedding. I’m his favorite, but he promised that to Meg before he knew he’d want to keep me. Before he knew I’d be his favorite. To take it back now would be over the line. It would be a demotion for Meg, and there’s no other way to spin that. Even he can’t spin that—not with her. He probably could with me, but not her.
“Eh, marriage is just paperwork,” Mateo says dismissively.
“That’s not true,” Isabella objects, a little romantic. “Weddings are beautiful. They tell the world you love each other.”
“I think the world already knows we love each other,” he tells her.
“But if you got married, I could be in the wedding like I was in Aunt Francesca’s.”
Mateo quirks an eyebrow at me. “Did you put her up to this?”
I chuckle, scrolling through some pictures of dolphins. “I did not. I know my place,” I tease.
Isabella raises her dark little eyebrows at him. “It’s my idea, not hers. You love each other, so you should get married.”
“It’s not that simple,” he tells her, tweaking her braid. “Why don’t you worry about little girl things and let me worry about my marital status?”
“I’m not little,” she says, pulling her braid away from him and draping it across her chest. “I’m getting older.”
“We’re already a family, Bella,” I tell her, wanting to save him from the conversation.
“He never married my mom,” she states. My eyes widen, because he’s right here, what the fuck, kid? Then she goes on, fearless in the way only Mateo’s daughter possibly could be. “Maybe if he would’ve, she wouldn’t have left.”
Oh, shit.
I’m too afraid to look at him. Mateo isn’t fond of being reprimanded, probably especially by a nine-year-old, and he definitely isn’t fond of talking about Beth. I don’t know why that little brat at her school had to go and kick all this Beth stuff up. There’s a chorus of “oh fuck” running through my mind on a loop, and it feels like I’m paused, the moment is paused, and I’m just waiting for it all to go to hell. Isabella is shielded from Mateo’s less fatherly side, so she doesn’t know we’re not supposed to say shit like that, I guess. She doesn’t know we don’t want to wake the monster that is the Morelli rage gene.
She also doesn’t know Beth engages that side of him more often than not. I could write a book on all the things Isabella doesn’t know.
I wish she would’ve just forgotten about Beth. I know that’s harsh and unkind, but it would’ve made life a lot easier for all of us.
“Huh,” Mateo murmurs, more calmly than I expect.
I dare a look up at him, but I can see all his humor has drained. He is no longer enjoying this little family moment, so it’s over.
“It’s time to go to bed,” he says, simply, pushing himself over toward the edge of the bed.
Isabella does not let it go. “I don’t want Mia to leave, too.”
“Honey, I’m not going anywhere,” I assure her, giving her another little hug. “I don’t need a wedding to stick around. I love your daddy, I love you—I’m in it for the long haul. Just try to get rid of me, I dare you.”
Her little lips are pursed, her inborn stubborn nature at war with her Morelli-girl conditioning. Once Mateo says stop, it’s time to stop, she knows that. But this is clearly weighing on her little mind, and I don’t want it there. “Promise?” she asks.
I nod vigorously. “Cross my heart.”
She hugs me around the neck. “I love you, too.” Then she lets go and hops off the bed, heading for the door.
I climb off, grabbing Mateo’s hand and tugging him back around before he can follow her out. He still looks irritated, so I wind my arms around his neck and lean in to give him a good kiss—the kind that’s bound to make us both want him to stay.
His grip on my hips tightens and he pulls me close, walking me back toward the bed. My blood stirs, but I’m aware of the little girl lingering by the door.
“You’ve gotta go,” I remind him.
Pulling back, he looks over at Isabella. “You go ahead; I’ll catch up in a few minutes.”
She wrinkles up her nose at him. “You’re gonna kiss her more, huh?”
“I am,” he states.
“Okay,” she says brightly, turning and leaving us alone in the bedroom.
Mateo smirks, lifting me up and tossing me down on the mattress. “I think she likes you,” he jokes.
“Must run in the family,” I tease, crawling backward on the bed.
He catches me before I make it too far, pushing my arms over my head and pinning them there. Oh, I hope he has some aggression to take out on me. I love when he’s gentle, but I still love it when he’s not. Maybe it’s good she brought up Beth; thinking about Beth makes him a little mean. I love him a little mean.
“You’re not supposed to be doing this, mister. I’ve had you for a whole week. You need to go sleep in your own bed.”
His lips move along my neck, then he rumbles in my ear, “Then I’ll just use you and leave you here.”
That shouldn’t arouse me, but oh, how it does. I shouldn’t let him fuck me when he’s going to spend the night with Meg, but I’m not good at telling him no. Which kind of works out, because he’s not good at listening to it.