Page 91 of Forget Me

Cold-hearted purpose. That’s what I’d come here with. But the curve of his back melted it away.

Something stuck out from under his T-shirt sleeve. A bandage? Had he hurt himself? Without touching him, I plucked up his sleeve. A square patch stuck to the skin of his inner arm, lighter than his tan.

“A nicotine patch? You’re quitting?”

His shoulders inched down. “Trying. For real this time.”

I swallowed. “For me?”

“No.” He turned to face me. “For me. For my health. But also…also for you.” One side of his mouth tipped up into a sad half-smile.

He was quitting smoking, something he’d been doing for years, something that connected him with his father, just because I hated it. No one had ever made a life change like that for me. The words dried up in my throat. I patted down his sleeve and let my fingertips linger for a moment on the smooth patch.

He’d done nothing but try to help me. From the night at the bar, when he’d saved my drunk ass from potential sexual predators, to the foundation meeting, when he’d buttered up Larissa, to the meals he was always trying to get me to eat, he’d always worked for me. Never against me. Not like Byron. It wasn’t his fault Larissa tried to take advantage of the obvious way he cared for me.

I trailed my hand over his hard pec and rested it on his breastbone where his kind heart beat. Roger nestled his tiny head against the side of my hand, fighting to be closer to that pulsing symbol of Mateo’s gentle goodness.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Forgive me?”

“Of course. Though there’s nothing to forgive. I under—”

“No.” I stepped closer until we were toe to toe. “For what I said. I didn’t mean it. Not really.”

“You”—his eyebrows crashed together—“you don’t want to break up?”

“No.” Shit, I’d smashed his brittle heart. I didn’t deserve his forgiveness. “Not unless you want to.”

He stopped my words with a kiss, hard and demanding. I opened and let him in. Let him do what he wanted. I could give him that after my cruel words this morning and just now.

Roger gathered himself and leaped to the floor with an annoyed mewl. His hands free, Mateo banded his arms around me and pressed me to his chest. His heart thrummed frantically, unlike the slow, easy beat I’d fallen asleep to last night.

“I thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled into the soft cotton that stretched over his tripping heart. “I’m sorry.”

“Food first, or…?”

“Or.” I raked my fingernails down his back the way he liked. “Definitely or.”

“Bedroom.” He clasped my hand and led me there. On the way, I tossed my purse onto the couch.

Inside the bedroom, something hummed like he’d left the bathroom fan running. Mateo didn’t so much as glance in that direction, all his focus on me. He walked backward until the backs of his knees hit the bed, then he tugged me to him. “Miriam,” he breathed into my ear as he tugged my turtleneck up over my head.

After a brief, breathless struggle, I was free of it. He tossed it to the floor, where it landed next to something bright blue that rattled against the floor.

Before he descended onto my neck, I narrowed my eyes. “What’s that?”

He palmed my breasts over my bra. “What?”

“That. On the floor.” It was made of plastic or silicone, less than a foot long and a couple inches in diameter. One end of it tapered and the other flared out wide. It looked almost like a—

He gasped and leaped for it. “Nothing.” He shoved it into the open drawer of the nightstand and slammed it shut.

“Are you sure?” Laughter bubbled up into my chest. “Because it sure looked like a—”

“Roger must have thought it was a toy. I mean, one of his toys. And—and—turned it on.” He reached back into the drawer, and the humming ceased.

He didn’t touch me. He’d gone cold and stiff.

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