Page 95 of Anything But Lonely

He's betting I crack first.

And the annoying thing is, he might be right.

He moves to close the door, offering me a nod in goodbye.

"Mateo."

He glances back, entirely too pleased with himself. "Yeah?"

Right now, I hate that smile.

"Do you want to hang out or not?"

His grin is immediate. "I thought you’d never ask."

CHAPTER 33

MATEO

The way I pretended to be all relaxed and indifferent when I found Emerson on the other side of my door this morning deserves an Oscar.

It might have been the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

When I heard the knock on my door, I was already pacing on the other side of it, spiraling about what I was going to do.

I wanted to confront her—demand she explain how she thought sending me a video of her coming all over my pillow minutes before I had to be on stage was appropriate.

I wanted to bend her over my knee and spank her until her ass was red with my handprint—the little brat move of hers causing me to almost forget the opening lyrics to our first song.

It took me at least half our set to rein in my thoughts—and my fucking hard-on.

But worst of all, I wanted to ask her what this means.

Does this mean the “one night” wasn’t enough for her either?

But I knew asking her any of this wouldn’t get me the answer I want.

Emerson isn’t one to tell someone what they want to hear—and I can’t imagine I have the same effect on her as she does on me.

Then again, I did get her to crack first.

I don’t know what her intentions were when she came to my hotel room this morning, but I can only assume it was to pull some sort of reaction out of me.

“And for you?” the barista behind the counter asks me. The second our eyes meet, recognition flashes across her face. Not the I-know-you-from-somewhere kind. The holy shit, that's Mateo Lane from Cross My Heart kind. Her smile brightens instantly.

“Americano too, please. Hot, though.” I pull my wallet from my back pocket and hand over my card.

The barista's fingers brush mine as she takes it.

“Love the newest album, by the way,” she says, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

I offer her the smile I've perfected over years of these interactions. Warm enough to be polite. Not warm enough to be mistaken for interest.

Especially since we haven’t released an album in almost two years.

“Thank you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Emerson watching the exchange.