Page 120 of Anything But Lonely

Unlike his partner, there’s nothing welcoming about him. His head is shaved down to a dark shadow of stubble, emphasizing the permanent scowl etched across his face. He stands with the easy confidence of someone who’s never been called out for being rude, and the longer I look at him, the more obvious it becomes that his attention keeps drifting down. His eyes land on my chest, flick back to my face, then wander right back again, like he doesn’t even realize—or care—how obvious he’s being. Every detail about him screams the same thing: asshole.

When he doesn’t respond, I roll my eyes, refusing to waste any more energy on the man. “What can I get you?” I ask the nice one, tapping his order into the iPad, and pulling a Sharpie out of my apron to jot it down on the cup—just in time for Brooke, the other barista on shift, to grab it from me now that she’s back from her break.

She offers me a smile as I turn to the guy with the shaved head. I don’t even bother asking him what he wants—instead, I look at him, waiting for him to order.

His eyes go down to my chest—again—before they go to Brooke. She’s humming along to the song playing over the speaker, a content smile on her face as she clicks a few buttons on the espresso machine.

“Why can’t you smile like that one?”

All the air immediately leaves the room.

The grinder stops. The music fades into the background. Even Brooke’s humming cuts off somewhere in my periphery.

I feel my jaw lock.

I learned early on that life gets a lot easier—and a lot more fun—when you start traumatizing men back.

Most of them aren’t nearly as “funny” when someone returns their energy.

And if I wasn’t standing behind a register with a nametag pinned to my chest, this conversation would be heading in a very different direction.

“Jenkins.” Mateo’s voice slices through the silence.

I hadn't even realized he and Mia had finished their conversation.

In three long strides, he’s inches from the guy—Jenkins. The easygoing demeanor Mateo usually has is gone. His expression is hard, unreadable, and somehow that makes him look bigger. Steadier.

Hotter.

Jenkins straightens instinctively.

Mateo steps directly into his line of sight, forcing the man’s attention away from me. Not aggressively. Not enough that anyone could accuse him of starting a problem.

Just enough.

Just enough to make it clear exactly where he stands.

The muscles in Mateo’s jaw flex as he levels Jenkins with a stare.

“Everything okay over here?”

The question is calm. Almost casual.

The warning underneath it isn't.

For the first time since they'd walked in, Jenkins looks uncomfortable. His confidence falters under Mateo’s gaze, his mouth opening and closing before he settles on an awkward shrug. It makes sense for a guy like him—cowering when another man calls him out for his bullshit behavior.

I feel some of the tension draining out of me, my pulse slowing.

Mateo doesn’t look at me right away. His attention stays locked on Jenkins for another second, making sure the message lands. Then he glances over his shoulder.

“You good?”

The concern in his voice is subtle, but it’s there.

And I’m not going to lie—it’s ridiculously hot.

And something about seeing the normally laid-back guy drop the smile and step in without hesitation sends an embarrassing little flutter through my stomach. I can take care of myself, and I’m confident in doing so. But Mateo always seems to remind me that I don’t always have to.