Page 25 of Anything But Lonely

Because my mind is too focused on the way his mouth moves and the bare, uncovered spot of skin on his neck—just big enough to sink my teeth into, hard enough to leave a mark, one that would fill the space perfectly.

“Thanks,” I quickly interject, standing up from my chair, needing to get some sleep—and distance. I don’t know if anything he just said requires a “thank you,” but they’re the only respectable words I think I can manage right now. “I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

“Oh.” Mateo stands, and I have to squint my eyes to make out his features. I swear I see disappointment on his face, but that can’t be right. He coughs into his fist. “Sure thing,” he says with a nod of his head.

I run a hand through my hair, pushing back my bangs just for them to fall back over my forehead. “What time does your son usually wake up?” I ask.

“His routine is a little off, so I’m sure he’ll be up early. Six, maybe?” he offers.

“Sounds good,” I say, making a mental note of the time. The sooner the kid is in the picture, the easier it will be to ignore these inappropriate thoughts I’m having of my new boss. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you tomorrow, Emerson.”

I replay the way his voice sounds saying my name until my head hits the pillow, like a lovesick teenager who actually did get picked out of the crowd by her favorite rockstar.

Exhaustion hits me like a tidal wave the second I pull the hotel comforter up to my chin, tucking my headphones into my ears and turning Cross My Heart’s newest album on.

It's ridiculous. And I feel stupid, embarrassed even, hiding in this bedroom with just a wall separating me from the owner of the voice that has spent more nights in my headphones than I care to admit, pulling me to sleep when my own thoughts refused to.

Tomorrow, it won't belong to the lead singer of Cross My Heart. It'll belong to the man signing my paychecks—and, more importantly, Crew's dad.

The city keeps glowing outside the window, the lights blurring into soft spots of color as I stare too long, until my vision blurs and my eyelids start to give way. Then, I just listen instead, letting the lyrics carry everything I refuse to name, until even that fades and my mind finally goes quiet.

CHAPTER 12

MATEO

Crew’s light snores fill the silence of the bedroom, the king-size bed feeling much smaller with the way my son spreads each and every limb as if trying to reach all four corners of the mattress.

I don’t know how long I’ve been laying here, staring at the ceiling, pretending not to be affected by the fact that the woman from the bar is just a wall away.

The woman I thought I’d never see again.

The woman I’ve thought about so much that it actually feels like I brought her into existence.

The woman who just became my son’s nanny.

I’m surprised I could even speak in coherent sentences after opening the door to find her.

Emerson.

I would’ve known her name if I hadn’t made such a fool out of myself that night at Lenny’s. I could’ve avoided the embarrassment of almost outing myself as a creepy, old stalker when she opened the door, and the first words out of my mouth were where I saw her last.

I slap the palm of my hand against my forehead, internally cringing at how horrible not only my first impression must have been, but now how I ruined it even further with my second.

And when she said she was picturing me… Naked.

I deserve an award for taking less than a minute to recover from that.

Who says that type of shit?

I knew she was direct from our phone call—and she comes across as someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone.

But she said it in the same cadence she would say if I was asking her about the weather.

And was it just me, or did she make it seem like that wasn’t the first time she’s pictured me naked?

Fuck.