By the time we stop by his office a couple of hours later for him to grab a client’s file before we go to his place for the rest of the evening, I’ve already received two lengthy, descriptive messages from Julian. The accountant details everything I already know about Bailon—from the fact he can be a complete bastard to his history of throwing dirty sex parties in his “million-dollar dungeon.” Since I’ve seen the downstairs of Mateo’s house, and it can hardly be described as a dungeon, my lips twitch as we stand on opposite sides of the elevator.

He cocks an eyebrow. “What the fuck is he saying now?”

“He wants me to know that you were recently involved in a very naughty sex scandal.” I flash my phone in his direction, showing him the link Julian has messaged me. “He fears for my safety and well-being. He asked me if I’m being coerced into sleeping with you.”

Mateo flattens his palms against the elevator wall behind him and tilts his head back. He opens one eye, giving me a questioning look. “And what the fuck did you have to say to that?”

“I thought about telling him my part in FuckGate 2017, but I figured it was smarter to tell him I would consider everything he said.” He snorts, and as the car stops on his floor, he strides over to me and lays his hand on my back.

“You should’ve told him you’re my new party planner. It would’ve really pissed him off,” he says as the doors part and we step into the reception area.

Sonora glances up from her desk, her eyes darting between us as she peels a Post-It from the top of the stack. “B, Marisol’s been trying to get in touch with you. I told her you took the afternoon off, but you know how she is. If she can’t get you on your phone, she calls here a hundred times.” She hands him the note, and he frowns down at it as the redhead turns toward me, beaming. “How’ve you been, Ms. Armstr—”

“Jamie,” I correct her, and she twists her lips to one side and gestures both hands at her boss like he’s the prize in a game show.

“He wants me to be more”—she does air quotes and lowers her tone, taking on the whisper of an accent his voice gets whenever he speaks to me in Spanish—“professional.”

“I think everyone in this office wants that,” he says, cutting his eyes at her. He gives me a tight smile and folds the note from his sister in his palm. I can’t deny I’m curious because he seems to crack a little every time Marisol reaches out to him. “It won’t take long. I’m just going to grab my files and then call … her.”

After I tell him to take his time, he disappears toward his office. I sit across from Sonora’s desk, in one of the chairs Lucy and I had waited in several weeks ago. The receptionist takes a call—laughing at something the caller says and lowering her lashes flirtatiously—then pages another attorney in the office. With her big blue eyes and wavy red hair, she really is stunning. Jessica Rabbit-esque, per Lucy. When she’s through connecting the call, she sets the phone down and places her elbows on her desk. A wide grin dances across her features as she sizes me up, from my tennis shoes to my cut-off shorts and tee shirt.

I smile back at her, but it’s shaky because I’ve never been a fan of someone staring at me without speaking—hell, who is? “You’re really freaking me out right now with that,” I say, and she leans back in her seat, a light blush kissing her cheeks.

“I was just thinking.” She pretends to focus on the square neckline of her fitted dress, but I can tell she’s looking up at me from beneath her thick lashes. “First Exley, now Bailon. You Worcester girls…”

I jab my tongue into my cheek. “I think you could have stopped at Jace, if you want to know my honest opinion.”

She gives me a pointed look. “I’ve heard your name more the last month or two than I’ve heard about Justin Davies’ superhero movie or Arrow Kendall’s tour or Priscilla Craig’s”—she scoffs when she says the other woman’s name—“reality TV show.”

“Are you sure Mateo wants you telling me about his clients’ projects?” After all, this is the same man who was ready to sue the pants off Jace when the picture of him and Victoria emerged. Sonora shrugs and mumbles that it’s nothing a quick Google search won’t turn up.

“Hmm, well, sorry you’ve had to hear about me.” Since I’m not entirely sure I should apologize—or what Mateo has said about me—it comes out as a question that Sonora waves off.

My focus zeroes in on her hands. Lucy’s mentioned that Sonora used to be a hand model for Jace’s gear, and I can’t help but admit that her small hands and almond-shaped nails look like an ad for fingernail polish. “I like hearing about you. Nothing compares to seeing B all worked up over Lucy Williams’s best friend.”

“I wouldn’t say he’s all worked up.” But hearing her say those words out loud launches butterflies through my chest and stomach. I shift in my seat, crossing my legs at the ankles. “Sonora, you’ve known him a long time. Do you know—”

“Sonora,” Mateo’s voice, sharp and distant, interrupts my question about his past. I slant my gaze quickly to the hem of my frayed shorts, praying he didn’t hear me as she whirls around in her chair to face him. I hear his footsteps stalking toward her desk, and when I raise my chin, I flinch. In just a matter of minutes, his demeanor has done a 180. Gone is the easygoing smile he’d given me the entire afternoon while we were out. Now, his face is a tight mask and his shoulders sag forward. “I need you to schedule me a flight to El Paso and I need it done now. The first one you can find.”

She wheels her chair behind her desk without questioning him, but every few seconds she glances up at us as I approach him. “Mateo, is everything—”

He scrapes his fingers over the back of his neck and though his lips remain closed, I can tell his tongue races back and forth across his teeth. My chest heaves because I know the next words out of his mouth will be excruciating for him, and the last damn thing I want is for him to hurt.

He blows out an anguished breath. “My sister called to let me know our grandmother had another stroke this afternoon.” My stomach hardens, so I squeeze my fist to it and take another tentative step toward him. “I’ve got to get there before…”

His words hang in the air, thick and harsh, and I feel my head bob up and down. “I’m so sorry, Mateo.” He’s stiff as my arms go around him, and my heart sinks when he stands still, his hands fisted by his sides.

“Do you—” I inhale and my nostrils fill with the scent of his cologne. “I’ll call an Uber to take me home.”

He breaks away from me slowly. Shutting his eyes, he massages his fingertips over his temples for several seconds where the only noise in the reception area is that of Sonora’s fingers flying over the keyboard as she searches for a flight. “No, I can take you home, just let me…” He focuses on the redhead, whose blue eyes are narrowed at her computer screen as she fishes a credit card out of the top drawer of her desk. “Let me figure out when I’m leaving and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

* * *

He says nothing on the drive to my apartment, so I sit quietly beside him, my hands clasped together between my knees. His stare doesn’t leave the road, and the steel behind it constricts my chest, making it hard—so agonizingly hard—to gather air from my lungs. I’ve never liked feeling helpless or useless, but damn if I don’t have any idea what to say or do. He’s not like Lucy or Bella or any other person I’ve ever known. I can’t just reach out to him and tell him it will be okay because I don’t think it will be. He’s only mentioned his grandmother to me once, but his adoration for the woman who raised him after his mother left had shined through.

So what do you say to a man who claims that love is a curse when the one person they’re truly crazy about might be lost to them?

Nothing.

I say nothing, and I hate that this is my solution.

When we reach my building and I start to get out of the car, he stops me. “I’ll walk you up,” he says, his lips pressing into a thin line.

The silence hangs between us in the elevator. As we walk a shoulder-width apart in my hallway. As I unlock my front door. My fingers are cold when they twist the knob, and I filter in a long breath through my nose. “I’m so sorry, Mateo. If there’s anything I can do to help you, I—”

“Kiss me goodbye,” he says in a rough voice, his knuckles skimming my waist. “Just kiss me goodbye.”

I turn to him and die a little at his hollow expression. Lifting my arms around his shoulders, I link my fingers behind his head and pull his lips to mine. This kiss hurts. It’s gentle—so goddamn gentle that I swear I’m floating—but there’s a coldness behind it. Fear and a sense of conclusiveness that leaves my breath puffing out in uneven gasps when we split away from each other.

“I’ll miss you while—” His jaw clenches and he scrubs a hand over his bronze features, shaking his head as if he’s changed his mind about what he planned to say. “I’ll miss you, Jamila.”

There’s acid in my lungs—in my throat—and a tension in my chest I don’t think will go away any time soon. Still, I manage to whisper, “I’ll miss you too, Mateo.”

He reaches out, his fingers close to my cheek—so close I can feel the warmth from his palm—but then he pauses. Swallows and grits his teeth. And he drops his hand by his side. “My flight leaves in three hours,” he explains, and I tell him I understand. “I’ll call you?”

Three words—famous last words—and it rips me to pieces to respond without my posture breaking. “I’m here if you need me, Mateo. For … anything.”

He grants me a tight smile and a brief nod. His lips part and for a moment I swear he’s going to say more—I pray he says more—but then he nods again and turns on the heel of his shoe.

I watch him go, my heart thumping more and more viciously with each step.

He’ll call, I tell myself. He’ll call because he just needs time to deal.

He’ll call, I tell myself because I don’t want to acknowledge the end in this moment.