Page 57 of Forget Me

“With what?” Under the fluorescents in the hallway, the shade was back in his eyes, cautious. Hesitant.

I hated it. Hated that I’d dimmed the brightness by acting like a supreme ass. That he expected me to be rude to him. That he somehow felt he deserved it.

“With putting you down. With being such a jerk.” I leaned on the door. “After we—after you—after everything.”

His eyes widened. “You remember?”

“Yeah. I don’t normally get like that. So drunk I forget things, I mean.” Sharp realization sliced through me, and I winced. What had he thought of me? I must have been stumbling, sloppy drunk that night. “I’d taken some allergy medicine that day and… You must have thought I was a fool. You took care of me. Did you do it for Ben? Because Cooper asked you to?”

“They both thought it was a good idea for me to keep an eye on you. But, Mimi, I did it for you. Because I care about you.”

“But you didn’t then, right?” I had to make it all make sense. To superimpose the stiff, silent Mateo I’d known before, the one who flirted with everyone but me, against the nice man who’d checked on me after my night out, who’d offered to go with me to the gala because I needed a date.

“Of course I did.” His blue eyes went soft and round. “You’re the smartest person I know. Confident. Beautiful. I like being around you. Even when I can’t keep up with you. Even when you’re not so happy with me.” He ducked his head.

No. The man I’d talked to at the bar was smooth, funny, and kind. And I’d never make him feel less-than again.

“Come here.” I grabbed his hand and tugged him through the doorway into my apartment. Standing an arm’s length away, I put my hands on my hips to keep from touching him.

“I’m sorry.” I stared at a spot in the center of his chest. “I made a mistake. I misjudged you. And I was unkind. Can you forgive me?”

His arms were longer than mine. He reached out, and with one thick finger, he tipped up my chin. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

His eyes were dappled with gold like a pair of Caribbean tidepools at midday. Like a shallow pool, Mateo’s surface was opaque, reflective, hiding the life, the intelligence, teeming within him. I’d refused to see anything beyond the shiny outside. I hadn’t bothered to peer inside, to explore what he concealed.

There was so much more to Mateo Rivera than the easygoing flirt. There was the hurt little boy, abandoned by his mother. The scared young man who’d given up his dreams of college to care for his sick father. The sad, lonely adult who’d dropped everything and moved across four time zones because his cousin had asked him.

The kind man who’d saved a drunk acquaintance from potential predators in a bar. Who’d kissed her until she felt less lonely, taken her home, and let her sleep it off.

Who never said a word when she forgot to thank him.

“Thank you,” I whispered. My gaze dropped to his lips. They were plush and pink. I remembered their softness when I kissed him that night. I remembered the bite of his stubble against my cheek. I remembered his big hand in my hair, tugging me closer. I remembered the hard press of his chest and the big heart that galloped inside.

All I wanted was to do it again. Sober, this time, so I remembered his taste, his sounds, so I could catalog them all. So I’d never forget.

He shifted closer until his hand cradled my jaw. I stretched up on my tiptoes, but I was still too short to reach him, even in my heeled boots.

“Kiss me? Again?” I asked.

“Yes.” He bent until his lips hovered a fraction of an inch away from mine. “Yes,” he murmured. Finally, his mouth lit on mine, light as a butterfly. “Yes,” he whispered, caressing my lips.

Our first kiss at the bar had been like this. Sweet and tentative. A question and an answer. Hesitant. Restrained.

For my side, I infused the kiss with the many apologies I owed him. For my unkind thoughts and actions. For forgetting what we’d shared and wishing for something more than the man who stood up for me, who helped me impress Larissa, who let himself get roped into planning a fancy-dress party. Who’d done it all for me.

I stretched my arms up around his neck and tugged him closer, my fingers teasing the curls at the back of his neck. I slid my tongue against the seam of his lips and pushed through, tasting him. Sharp, peppery mint. And something spicy. Clove, perhaps, or that spice my dad used to make his special apple cake for Rosh Hashana.

He purred like Roger the kitten and let me invade, easing his tongue against mine, bending me back slightly over his arm. I hung on, meeting him again and again, intoxicated by his kisses, lost in his taste. My knees trembled and my calves shook with the stretch up from my toes. If only I were taller, I could push back against him, rub my tingling nipples against his chest, straddle his thigh and ride it to soothe the pulse between my legs. But with our height difference, all I could do was tug him tighter, closer, and show him with my tongue what I wanted to do when our clothes came off.

Finally, breathless, I pulled back and sucked in a breath. “Wow.”

He kissed the corner of my mouth. My jaw. My earlobe. He breathed into my ear, “¡Caray!”

“What—what now?”

“You’re asking me? You always know what to do, Mimi. What do you want now?”

My body needed him, naked and in my bed.

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