Page 54 of Anything But Lonely

“I’m okay,” he says quickly as he stands to his full height, even though I didn’t ask. He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m going to check with our drivers,” he mutters, heading down the hallway and through the kitchen and living room and towards the front of the bus.

I bring a hand to my chest, my heartbeat finally starting to slow as Mateo disappears into the cockpit. It takes me a second to register what just happened.

And how much I need it to happen again.

“Repair team and a new bus should be here in the morning,” Mateo says, leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom, crossing his arms.

I’ve been sitting on my bed, waiting for an update, trying to keep myself busy with a book, but I think I read the same page three times.

“So what’s the plan?” I ask, closing my book and tossing it into my open suitcase on the ground.

Mateo exhales, blowing the breath out of his mouth. “Luckily, the drivers were able to pull off the highway and into a hotel parking lot, so they’re going to head into the hotel to sleep for the night,” he explains. “We can sleep on the bus. Or if you want a room, we can get you one, but I think I’m just going to sleep here.”

I nod my head, weighing my options.

When I got into bed tonight, I expected to feel my body sink into the mattress like it always does. Instead, I’ve been up thinking about the rockstar standing in front of me right now.

“I think I’ll sleep on the bus too,” I say, but my voice is just above a whisper.

Mateo watches me carefully, but he doesn’t make a move to head to his bedroom. “Okay,” he says, whispering too. It’s like if we keep our voices low, we aren’t actually admitting what I think we both are thinking right now.

That we’re alone on the tour bus.

Stranded until tomorrow.

As if the universe is giving us an extra night before we’re supposed to dive back into real-life.

Where there are no crowds, no cheering fans, no four-year-olds with oversized headphones running around backstage.

I move onto my knees, kneeling at the edge of my bed. All I would have to do is reach my arm out, and I’d be touching him. The bedroom is small but even smaller when it’s the two of us.

“Emerson,” Mateo whispers, almost like he’s in pain. He swallows. “What are you doing?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” I ask, sitting back on my heels.

“Preferably,” he admits. “I’m not—I don’t know—I’m not sure what’s happening right now.”

A smile threatens my lips. “That depends,” I offer. “Do you want something to happen?”

He looks at me for a moment, contemplating his answer, before he nods.

“Then, come here,” I say, holding out my hand.

His gaze moves to my opened palm, and he only hesitates for a second before taking it and closing the distance between us.

With where I’m kneeling on the bed, I still have to look up to meet his eyes. And when I do, his lips are just inches from mine. He immediately envelopes me in warmth—and even though this has barely begun, I know I’m already going to miss it when it’s gone.

Mateo’s chest rises and falls, and I swear I can hear his heart beating in his chest. It mirrors my own, the rate rising the longer we stand here.

“Emerson.” His grip on my hand tightens, his weight slightly shifting from one foot to the other. “I haven’t—” he pauses, looking down at our hands before his eyes meet mine again. “I told you. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone,” he admits.

“Why?” I ask, holding his gaze.

It takes him a moment to work up the nerve, but I don’t push him. Not now.

“The band took off when Talia and I were already together,” he explains. “And when we separated two years after Crew was born, I didn’t want the tabloids or gossip sites turning our breakup into some kind of spectacle by catching me with someone else. So I just focused on my son and my band and co-parenting.” He pauses, his gaze dropping for a moment.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I offer, squeezing his hand in mine before adjusting our hold, interlacing my fingers with his.