Page 11 of Matteo's Mettle
“Josh is a distraction,” he chuckles. “Sorry about him.”
The woman pokes him in the chest with her index finger, “That boy is not your responsibility. He’s been giving me grief longer than you’ve been a member.” There’s a fondness in her voice that belies the complaint. “Still, I hope you’ve had a good night?”
“Yeah,” he scratches the back of his neck, suddenly realizing that he has an audience. His cheeks flush.
Her eyes widen as she takes me and Kate in, and then her lips pull into a knowing grin when she addresses him again. “Making new friends?”
“Meg,” he says in warning.
She laughs and pushes him back towards us, making a shooing motion. “The night’s still young. Go enjoy your birthday some more.”
“So…” I grin as we step out into the cool night air. “Birthday, huh?”
It’s only as I ask that I recall his friend, Josh, saying something about it when I was eavesdropping earlier.
Matteo looks distinctly uncomfortable. “Yeah.”
The smile slips from my face when I do the math and realize that he’d clearly arrived with a friend (under duress, if the conversation I’d overheard was any indication) who had then disappeared and left him on his own.On his birthday. That doesn’t sit right with me. Still, I don’t know what to say to make it better.
Thankfully, Kate steps in. “Have you had cake? I maintain that it’s not a real birthday without cake.”
Matteo shakes his head. “Nah. No cake. I haven’t really been in a celebrating mood for the last couple of birthdays.” Then, as if he’s ashamed of having brought the mood down, he forces a bright smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes and jokes, “I’m getting old. Losing count and shit.”
Alarms blare in the back of my brain.He’shurting. He might be trying to cover it up, but there’s pain in his eyes and something about the tense set of his shoulders has me wanting to wrap him in my arms and never let him go. I can’t imagine why his friend would have left him like this. On his actual birthday, no less.
I know I should let it go myself, but I can’t see that happening. Someone needs to look after this man.
“Please, you’re, what, forty?” Kate asks, brazen as always.
“You’re my new favorite,” he points at her, then upturns his palm and makes a ‘gimme’ gesture, curling his fingers back towards himself a few times. “Keep the flattery coming.”
She pushes, “There’s no way you’re much older than that.”
“You’re not subtle, you know that?” He might be calling her out, but he’s grinning so her tactics appear to be working. “Forty-fucking-five, if you absolutely have to know.”
Kate’s gasp is over-the-top dramatic, but that’s Kate for you. “No! You lie!”
“I wish.”
“Okay,” I intervene, chuckling at their antics as I fish my keys from my pocket. We’ve been walking towards the car, parked in the designated lot behind the warehouse. I click the button to unlock it and the orange lights flash twice in the darkness. The lot is lit by a couple of large floodlights, but it’s not super bright. “Here we are.”
“Matteo can ride shotgun,” Kate declares, gathering up layers of tulle and satin in preparation of smooshing herself into the back of my Hyundai. “It’s your birthday,” she tells him when he moves to argue, “and you’re taller than me. Your legs will thank you for it. Besides, London will drop me off first, so it saves you having to get out at my place.”
He can’t fault her logic, so he thanks her. Then, hesitantly, he says, “It’s Matt.”
She stares at him quizzically.
“I prefer Matt. Only my dad ever called me Matteo.”
Past tense, I note. This guy’s been through some shit, I can just tell.
“Noted,” I acknowledge easily, and we all climb into our seats.
Kate keeps conversation flowing from her spot in the middle of the backseats, talking about how fun the night was and thanking me again for stepping in for Cherie. Then she explains to Matteo (Matt, I correct myself mentally) that her wife is her Mommy and was called into work last minute. Matt makes appropriate comments of commiseration, and then they compare notes about their favorite activities of the evening. By the time we pull up outside Kate and Cherie’s place, the pair have exchanged numbers.
“You should totally come for a playdate,” she demands of the big man, stars in her eyes at the thought. “I don’t have many little friends. We, uh, we don’t get to socialize very often.”
My heart squeezes for her and Cherie, and I’m once again filled with the feeling that the latter desperately needs to find a new job.
