Page 43 of Matteo's Mettle
We talk about Matt’s work week on the drive across town, which then segues into a summary of my last trip across the country.
“Stan and I agree that they’re pretty autonomous these days,” I tell him as I park my trusty little Hyundai in the lot next to the cute little French bistro I decided upon. I unbuckle my belt and twist in my seat to face him, beaming because I’m so happy to report this to him. “So it looks like I’ll be able to get away with visiting the office in person once a month at worst. The rest of the time, I can manage them remotely. Teams meetings, emails, that kind of thing.”
Matt’s expression lights up like a Christmas tree. “Really?”
I bob my head with enthusiasm.
“That’s awesome!” He leans across the center console, grunting in complaint when he’s stopped by his own seatbelt. His hands scrabble to unbuckle himself and I chuckle at his distracted fumbling. Then he takes a deep breath, shoots me an unimpressed glower, finally presses the button down and launches himself towards me.
His lips are on mine before I can blink, and he takes control of the kiss. It’s deep, and passionate, and I lament the lack of space in my tiny little shitbox car when I can’t pull him any closer against me.
“We’re going to be late for our reservation,” I complain lightly when we come up for air.
Matt snickers. “Does that mean we can get takeout and go home?”
I attempt to reach behind him to swat at his ass. “Be good, baby. I want to take my beautiful boy out and make everyone jealous.”
Even now, after over nine months together, the compliments bring a flush of pink across the visible strips of skin above his beard. It’s still adorable as fuck.
“Fine, Daddy,” he moves back into his seat with a playful pout. “But you’re buying me dinneranddessert.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” I take the bait, “youaremy dessert.”
* * *
Dinner goes smoothly, and I know that, for all of his complaining that he’d rather be at home, Matt enjoys the rare night out. He practically moans over every bite of the meal I selected for him, the decadence of the French cooking too delicious not to enjoy.
We play footsie beneath the table, teasing each other like we’re on our first date instead of in a committed, long-term relationship. And I do order dessert, because he’s been such a good boy and I’ll do anything to keep that smile on his face.
But when we get home and I pull into the driveway, there’s a stranger on our doorstep.
In the passenger seat, Matt tenses up, frowning as the man who had been leaning against the wall next to the front door pushes away and moves towards us.
“Trent,” Matt inhales sharply, and now I’m feeling tense as well. What is he doing here? Who does he think he is that he can just turn up on his ex’s doorstep unannounced?
As Trent steps into the light from the motion-sensor floodlights we installed above the front door, I can see that he’s tall like Matt, and roughly around the same age at a glance, but lean and clean shaven. He has light-colored hair, something like a sandy blonde, and a long, angular face. As he gets closer and I climb out of the car having told Matt to stay put for a moment, I note that he’s handsome in an ageing Hollywood star kind of way.
He stops and frowns at me. “And you are?” He asks, and his voice is higher pitched than I’d anticipated. Maybe this attitude is in compensation of not exactly having gravitas in his voice, but from the little bits and pieces Matt has let slip in our time together, I think it’s more a case of Trent just being an asshole in general. Or maybe I’m projecting.
Pasting on a genial smile, I extend my hand. “London,” I introduce myself. When he gives me a slow look over, starting at my feet and trawling slowly up towards my face, refusing to shake my hand or introduce himself, I ignore the distaste in his expression and cheerfully tuck my hand back in my pocket. Leaning back against my car, I cock my head to the side. “How can I help you, Trent?”
With a roll of pale blue eyes, he gestures at the car with a dismissive wave. “I’ll talk to Matteo, thank you.” He clears his throat when I don’t budge. “Privately.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” I bounce on my heels, remaining chirpy and overly friendly. “It’s been, what, close to three years since you sent him packing without so much as a second’s thought about how he was going to manage? You think he even wants to talk to you?”
Trent grits his teeth and I get the feeling he’s not used to being challenged.
Well, too bad, cupcake.
“Listen, son,” he patronizes me, “I’ve been sitting here waiting for almost an hour-”
“Well, that wouldn’t be an issue if you hadn’t turned up without so much as a courtesy call.”
Rolling his eyes, he leans around me and loudly demands that Matt get out of the car and talk to him. Before I can insist otherwise, the passenger door opens and Matt climbs out. He’s stony-faced and nothing like the sweet, jovial man I’ve spent the evening wooing and spoiling.
“Why are you even here, Trent?” He asks, sounding both defeated and disinterested. He walks around the car and I don’t waste any time wrapping my arm around him, tucking him into my side.
Possessive? Yeah. Do I care? Nope.
