Page 55 of Forget Me

16

MIMI

I clutchedMrs. Butternut until she mewled and wriggled. I loosened my grip, but I needed something to hold onto because

my

world

had

turned

upside down.

As soon as Mateo slid on those tortoiseshell glasses, the memories flooded back.

Leaning toward him, our elbows touching on the bar. Our shoulders bumping as we laughed until finally I slumped against him, and he held me up.

That night, I told him things. All about Bree and why I wanted a full-time job at the foundation. About how much I admired Larissa but could never seem to impress her. About my mother and wanting to make her proud.

He told me things, too. About his mother leaving them when he was young—so young! About Mateo and his father propping each other up after. About how he cared for his father. How much he loved him. And he’d pulled the ring off his finger…

The ring. Sure enough, his right ring finger was pale at the base, where a ring would have belonged. I stroked the outline of it on the chain around my neck under my sweater. He’d given it to me for safekeeping. So I’d remember that night.

So I’d remember him.

I swore I’d remember, despite the tequila.

Yet I’d broken that promise.

I’d forgotten him. I’d forgotten it all. Except for the fuzzy memory of a man in glasses who’d made me laugh. One who, at least my tequila-dulled brain had thought, might be worthy of a disruption in my driven life.

Mateo bent over the book to listen as the kid haltingly read to him. He stroked Roger’s fur slowly, absently, hypnotically.

He didn’t even notice that my blindfold had fallen off. That I saw him now. That when I wasn’t snarling at him, he was sweet and steady and kind.

Mateo was my Mystery Man.

And I was the woman who’d snubbed him. Who’d looked for something different, someone better, when a good man had stood right in front of me, offering friendship. And possibly more.

Mrs. Butternut curled up and nipped my knuckle. Not hard, but hard enough to pull my attention to the little girl waiting patiently for me. She wore bright purple leggings and aWhere the Wild Things Aresweatshirt.

“Can I read your cat a book?” she asked.

I blinked. I was here to read to kids, not ogle Mateo. My private earthquake had shifted the ground only for me. “Of course. This is Mrs. Butternut, and I’m Mimi. What’s your name?”

“Tara. I like books about animals.” She held up her book, which had a dog on the cover.

“Me, too.” I’d always wished for a golden retriever, but we’d never had one because of my allergies.

As Tara snuggled next to me, Mrs. Butternut stretched against her thigh. I sneaked a glance at Mateo.

He watched me behind those glasses. If you’d asked me last month if glasses were inherently sexy, I’d have told you no. But on Mateo, they drew my gaze to his magnified ocean-blue irises and the long lashes that wreathed them. Below the simple plastic frames, his jaw was rugged, strong enough to take the blows life had thrown at him. Soft with stubble that I knew the feel of from that night when I’d run my hand over his cheeks, scratched my fingertips through the bristles.

From the abrasion of it on my cheeks when he kissed me.

I lifted my hand to my upper lip as if the beard burn still marked it.

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