Page 24 of Anything But Lonely

“I’m sure you have a few questions for me,” I start, filling the silence between us. The stillness of the room is starting to make me feel uncomfortable.

There’s something about the dark hotel room that has me feeling like it would be easy to hide in it. Like whatever happens here stays here. And that’s a dangerous thought.

Mateo nods, clearing his throat. “I did,” he says slowly, “but I’m going to be honest with you.”

I sit up in my chair, pressing my forearms against the wooden table.

Mateo interlaces his fingers, the ink swirling over his skin, disappearing under the sleeve of his hoodie, momentarily distracting me from the conversation at hand.

I’ve seen Mateo’s tattoos from afar when I’ve been to Cross My Heart’s concerts, and I can’t lie and say I haven’t fantasized once or twice about our tattooed bodies tangled up in each other—it’s a thought I’m sure everyone has had from the crowd.

How could you not when he’s a literal sex icon—like every person’s rockstar fantasy come to life.

“So I don’t really have much of a choice,” I hear Mateo say, and I realize I’ve been staring at his hands so hard that I missed everything he just said.

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head, forcing myself to look up at him. “Full disclosure. I was distracted thinking of you naked and missed all of that.” I lean back in my chair, pulling the sleeves of my sweater into my palms before crossing my arms. “For the final time. I promise. Especially since you’re going to be my boss.”

I don’t know if anything he just said was about hiring me, or maybe it was him trying to let me down easily. Either way, I’m not going down without a fight.

Mateo’s eyes are wide, his body completely frozen. “You—” he starts, but it’s like the words get caught in his throat. He swallows, his lips parting, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway,” I start, changing the subject, even though I know I could spend the foreseeable future pulling this reaction from him again and again. “Can you repeat all of that? I promise I’m listening this time.”

Mateo swallows again, rolling his lips together. “Sure,” he manages to say, and I resist the urge to react to the little voice crack I hear. “I know we discussed on the phone that you could meet Crew, and we could talk about the possibility of a job.”

The more he talks, the more he seems to find his voice again. There’s a sureness to him now, but it isn’t like the confidence he portrays when he’s on stage—the dynamic so intriguing to me, and I don’t know why

“But circumstances have changed, and I really don’t know how I’ll be able to make sure he’s taken care of while not letting down everyone counting on me for this tour,” he explains, and I can hear in his voice how much he’s being pulled in opposite directions.

I don’t know Mateo Lane, at least this version of him. I know his voice, his songs, his sound, intimately well, but as a dad? Not so much.

But the way he goes on to explain how having Crew on this tour means a lot to him—and how he knows he can’t be in two places at once and give his all to both his son and the tour—has me thinking he’s doing the absolute best he can.

Which is what has me saying, “Like I said on the phone, I’m available, and I’m happy to help.”

Mateo brings his hands to his lap, tapping lightly against his thighs. The table shifts subtly, over and over again, and I see out of the corner of my eye that he’s bouncing his legs. “Crew is a super laid-back kid, always has been. And a great helper. He loves Halloween and his black cat named Pepper—I’m sure he’ll tell you all about her.” He loses himself as he tells me more and more about what sounds to be the coolest kid on the planet, and, for a moment, I can’t think of a better way to spend my time than watching Mateo talk about his kid. “Anyway,” he finally says, looking a little embarrassed at his rambling, “we don’t need to be on the road until the day after, so I figured you could meet him tomorrow, and then I can introduce you to the rest of the band and the crew we travel with.”

“Works for me,” I say, stifling a yawn, covering my mouth with my fist.

“We can talk about compensation tomorrow too, since I’m sure you’re exhausted from your flight. And don’t worry about traveling or hotels or food or anything. I got you covered.” He offers me a small smile, and it’s like a shock to my system, a foreign sensation I feel through my entire body. “The three of us will usually be in the same room, depending on the hotel, but I made sure to get at least two bedrooms for all the suites. And you’ll have your own space on the tour bus for travel days.”

I nod along as he continues explaining a quick gist of the tour’s schedule.

“And if you text me your email, I’ll forward you the schedule from our tour manager.”

“Sounds good.” My voice is a mask of indifference, but it’s all for show. The more he talks, the more I start to realize that maybe this was a bad idea.

Close quarters with Mateo Lane?

For eight months?

The job was supposed to be the distraction—that’s the safest option, for me and everyone else involved.

But now, sitting here in the low light of the hotel room, listening to the melodic voice I’ve been falling asleep to every night, watching the way he can’t quite keep his body still, tracing the tattoos covering his skin…

This is a horrible idea.

His voice sounds like it’s underwater. I think he’s explaining the upcoming travel schedule. An extra day in Atlanta. St. Louis. Kansas City. Who knows.