Page 53 of Anything But Lonely

His stupid ability to make it feel like we’re the only two people in this whole entire world.

It would be easier if he were just attractive. If this was just a physical thing. A harmless distraction.

Something I could understand and control.

But of all people, Mateo Lane has to have this infuriating habit of saying exactly the thing I don’t want to hear and somehow making me want to listen anyway.

And be insanely hot?

I’m not used to men being so emotionally intelligent—it’s annoying.

I sit up on my elbow, flipping my pillow around for the third time. I can’t stop tossing and turning, my eyes wide open and staring at the tour bus ceiling, listening to the soft rumbling of the wheels—picturing stupid Mateo and his stupid tattooed hands and how stupidly hot they’d look on my body.

I roll onto my side, hiking the covers over my head. I haven’t even put my headphones in, knowing I’m nowhere close to sleep.

Maybe I’m the stupid one.

Heat pools low in my stomach as I lie there, painfully aware of every inch of space between us—a closed door, a small hallway, another closed door.

My skin feels too sensitive, my heartbeat too loud, the air in my bedroom too warm.

A harsh clank comes from somewhere beneath us, followed by a grinding whine that vibrates up through the floor and rattles the windows, my body immediately going on high alert, like a bucket of cold water over my head.

I sit up, and that’s when I hear a sudden hiss of compressed air releasing, louder than it should be, like the bus is exhaling a long, tired breath. I feel the bus start to slow.

“Emerson?” Mateo’s muffled voice shouts, and it sounds like he’s just outside my door.

Lifting the blanket off my legs, I rush to the door, opening it to find Mateo’s messy hair and bare chest heaving, like he just jumped out of bed.

I look up to meet his eyes, only to find him staring at the hem of my T-shirt, where it lands mid-thigh. His throat bobs, swallowing as his gaze moves up my body, landing on my chest where an old, faded Cross My Heart tour logo sits.

We’ve never brushed the topic of how much of a fan of his band I am, but sleeping in one of the shirts probably hints at where I stand.

He opens and closes his fists at his sides, his jaw tightening, like he’s restraining himself.

The tour bus is just dark enough to make out his features, and the thin hallway between our respective bedrooms doesn’t leave much room between us.

When Mateo’s eyes finally meet mine, there’s something there that I’ve never seen before.

Hunger.

He’s looking at me like he’s the predator, and I’m the prey. Like he’s moments away from losing the tight restraint he keeps on himself.

And I want to bask in it.

And I want him.

To lose myself in the feel of him.

To cross a line neither of us even drew to begin with—because this was never supposed to happen. We barely know each other, and I’m here to do a job. To take care of his son.

But maybe it’s the darkness of the hall, the loaded silence in the air between us, the way we both watch each other.

It’s like we’re each waiting—daring—the other to make the first move.

Before either of us can do a thing, the bus comes to a harsh stop, causing us to lose our balance.

I barely catch myself on the door frame, and Mateo stumbles down the small hallway, finding his footing just before he falls to the ground.