Page 23 of Anything But Lonely

Judging by the look on Mateo’s face when his brown eyes meet mine, he can’t say the same.

“You’re the girl from the bar.”

The words come out sharper than he probably intends, edged with accusation but tangled with confusion—maybe even disbelief. Like my showing up here is the last thing he expected.

The realization seems to hit him the moment the words leave his mouth. His eyes widen, and for a second he looks like he wishes he could shove them right back in.

I’ve thought about that night at Lenny’s one too many times over these last few days, but I pushed the whole interaction with Mateo to the back of my mind, especially considering that he was my one shot of getting out of Milwaukee, at least for a little while. A guy like him, a world-renowned rockstar—even with my confidence, I didn’t think I made much of an impression. At least not one that warranted this type of reaction to seeing me again.

But I did learn something about Mateo Lane that night—watching him stumble over his words and ramble through an explanation I hadn’t asked for.

There is more to him than what he presents on stage.

And the man standing in front of me is infinitely more compelling than the one the rest of the world thinks they know.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, pushing the door the rest of the way open and stepping aside. “Come in.” His voice is a little steadier this time, though the surprise on his face hasn’t gone anywhere.

He reaches for my suitcase before I have a chance to grab it, wheeling it into the hotel room as the door closes behind us.

The suite is huge, bigger than my apartment back home. The soft glow of lamps spill into the living area, littered with what looks like the aftermath of a long evening. There’s a pair of tiny sneakers kicked beneath the coffee table, a few children’s books fanned open across the couch, and a black cat stuffed animal lying on its side beside a half-full sippy cup.

Walking past the couch, careful not to step on the small, opened suitcase spilling with what I assume are Mateo’s son’s clothes, I set my backpack down at the small dining table. There are two doors just beyond the kitchen, one cracked open enough for me to hear subtle rain sounds and soft crackles of thunder, the other still closed.

“Sorry about the mess,” Mateo says from behind me, placing my suitcase next to the closed door.

“Looks like an eventful bedtime,” I say, looking around the quiet chaos, the hotel room a perfect depiction of a night spent trying to get a little boy to go to sleep.

Mateo sighs. “You could say that.” He closes some of the space between us, and the temperature in the room instantly feels like it went up a few degrees. “I’m Mateo, by the way.” He holds out a hand, his lips pursed to one side.

“Emerson.” I take his hand in mine, the cool sting of his rings a stark contrast against the warmth of his palm.

His eyes bore into mine, and there’s something enticing about the way he looks at me, like he doesn’t want to look away. It has me staring back at him, my hand still in his, stepping up to the challenge.

A few moments pass before he must realize he hasn’t said anything, his gaze going to our hands before he quickly lets go, squeezing his hand into a fist a few times before motioning for me to sit.

I roll my lips together, trying to hold in a smile.

The memories from a few nights ago at Lenny’s come back to me—how I thought to myself how fun it would be to make this man’s life a living hell in the best way possible.

Add in how easily flustered he gets, and I truly could have a new lease on life.

Sitting down across from Mateo, I push the thought away, reminding myself that I’m here for one reason and one reason only.

A distraction.

A distraction in the form of a job. Being needed. Taking care of someone.

It’s what I do best. The kind of caring you can clock in and out of. The practical kind.

Making meals, remembering schedules, anticipating needs before they're spoken.

Keeping someone else's life from falling apart. Not the kind that asks for pieces of your heart. A series of tasks that keep another person fed, safe, comforted, and on schedule.

Feelings complicate things. Responsibilities don't.

Caring for someone else means I don’t have to care about myself.

That’s what I’m here for.