Page 81 of Good as Gold
There’s a lump in my throat now that red wine can’t fix. “I don’t deserve you,” I admit.
“That isnottrue,” he argues immediately. “And it never will be.”
I’m not so sure, though. When dinner is served, it’sdelicious.
* * *
Here’s the thing about summer in Vermont—it’s hard to be too sad when the sky is blue, the air is sweet, and you’re about to make five hundred bucks pouring beer at a wedding.
Also, parties are fun. I’m wearing a sexy yellow sundress with spaghetti straps and a short, flirty skirt. I’ve tamed my hair into an up-do, and I’m wearing my favorite fresh-water pearl earrings.
I’m in a good place, and I’m looking forward to this job—both the view and the paycheck. And by “view” I mean the sight of Matteo loading the cold beer into the wagon as I park outside the warehouse. He’s wearing a crisp dress shirt and khaki pants that fit as if they were molded to his hunky body.
When I step out of the car, he turns to smile at me. His smile fades, as he takes a moment to look me up and down. Then he gives me a gruff hello before pointedly picking up a keg and walking away.
“Hey!” I cry, hopping off the loading dock and following him to the wagon’s entrance. “What’s up with you? Something wrong?”
“That dress,” he rumbles.
“What are you talking about?” I’m dressed at least as nicely as he is. “This dress happens to be perfect. It sayswedding, but it also saysoutdoor work on a warm day. And these shoes—” I point down at my strappy sandals. “—can slay all day.”
“I know,” he grunts. “You are goddamn edible in that dress and those shoes. And I’m gonna spend the next six hours droolin’.”
Oh. “Well, that’s your problem, not mine.”
“I got that.” He leaves the wagon to grab another keg, and I take a look at the inventory in the coolers.
“Hey look!” I bend over to pull a bottle out of the cooler, and he groans. “What now?” I demand. But then I realize that I might have given him a view of my tiny underwear.Oops. I stand up again. “Look—this is my brother’s beer.” I hold up the bottle. “The client must have requested it. Otherwise, my father would never have stocked it.”
“Really?” He frowns at the bottle. “Your brother is—what—the COO of that company? Isn’t Daddy impressed?”
I snort. “Not hardly. My father calls him a sellout. To his face.”
“Rough.” Matteo shakes his head. “I always thought your dad was kind of abrasive. Usually not to me, though.”
“He likes you.” I shrug. “You’re part of a rare club. I’m also a member. But Nash is not.”
“Well, that’s weird.”
“It’s unhealthy.” I snap the cooler closed. “The only reason that Nash and I get along is because I acknowledge that I know I’ve had it easy with Dad.”
“What did Nash ever do to him, anyway?”
“He left to work for a soulless brewing conglomerate.” I tug the cooler toward the hand truck, but Matteo just picks it up and carries it to the wagon.
I watch his muscles flex, and I’m not even sorry.
Not that I’d admit it, but he’s right—spending time together is a little more fraught than I’d expected it to be. Although I’ve been faking it pretty well these past couple weeks. We hang out sometimes, and I can usually manage to string sentences together without thinking about sex.
Mostly. But not always.
It’s a quiet drive down to Norwich in Otto’s truck. I play some old music to amuse Matteo—the stuff we listened to in high school.
“Green Day makes me feel like a rebellious teen again.” He chuckles, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “Still popular with the snowboard jockeys, too. I hear these tunes a lot in Colorado.”
As we get deeper into the playlist, I hear Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone.” And “We Belong Together,” by Mariah Carey.
Something strange comes over me as I listen to the lyrics. I have a sudden, crystalline memory of listening to these songs, lying on my bed… thinking about Matteo.
