Page 51 of Spark
Stuffy,closed-upairassaultsus as we enter Mateo’s house. It’s been four weeks since his injury, and he's essentially been living with me, only coming to his place to pick up clothes, get the mail, and that sort of thing. I set the pile of mail we picked up from his elderly neighbor, Mr. Wright, who’s been kind enough to keep an eye on the house while Mateo’s been convalescing, on the dining room table. Mateo fiddles with the thermostat, and soon the sound of the air kicking in is followed by the hum of the air conditioner.
“Should cool down soon.” He limps over to the table and drops into a chair. It’s a slight limp, but a limp all the same. Frustration mars his handsome face making me feel a smidge of remorse for being relieved when the doctor didn’t clear Mateo to go back to work after three weeks. To say he was displeased is an understatement. He brooded and groused until I took him down my throat, making him forget what he was upset about.
I glance out the window at the abandoned lot next door. “That lot’s looking scary. You want me to mow it when I finish with the yard?”
“You don’t have to.” Fully engrossed in sorting the mail, he doesn’t look up, his tone grumpy and bearish.
I ignore his dismissal. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that my man does not do well with asking for, needing, or accepting help. “Okay.” I pull my shirt over my head, liking the way his attention moves from the mail to my chest. His scowl morphs into a look of interest, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my knowing grin hidden.
No, I am not above using sex to distract Mateo from his morose musings. It’s not like we don’t both enjoy my tactics, what, with the orgasms and everything. Plus, he’s been so tense. I know he’s worried about money, but the only thing worrying does is keep him from enjoying things like sleep and more time together.
I fold my shirt, making sure to flex a little as I do. My body is nothing compared to Mateo’s with the pecs, and the arms, and the thighs… Sonnets should be written about this man’s thighs. But I digress… My body… I keep fit, but I’m still forty and work an office job. However, the appreciation Mateo pays to my physique, the way he lavishes it and always seems to take any opportunity to ogle it, makes me feel twenty-five again. Tossing my shirt onto the table, I pluck the key to the shed from the key holder and head out back to mow his postage-stamp-sized backyard. "I won't be long."
“Thanks.”
Catching him gawking at my ass when I look over my shoulder, I blow him a kiss and wink. The glint in his eyes and the rumble of his chuckle as he shakes his head fill me with satisfaction that I have done my job of keeping him from worrying about things he can not control. If only for a moment. With one last shake of my moneymaker, I head out to take care of my man's other needs.
“Yeah, baby.” His flirty response trails behind, igniting a craving in my body that never seems to dissipate.
After mowing Mateo’s yard, and the lot next to his house, I welcome the respite from the sun as the door bangs open when I enter the kitchen. My nipples perk when the cool air hits my sweaty skin. No sign of Mateo, I stick my head under the faucet and guzzle the cold water, letting it wash over my face. When I’ve had my fill, I turn my head, the water flushing away the heat and grime. Unrolling a wad of paper towels, I pat my head and neck and walk into the living area in search of Mateo. After catching him peering out the window watching me mow, I was hoping he might be up for a little sweaty sex.
“Mateo,” I call.
“I’ll be down in a minute. Just grabbing a few things.” Even a floor away, I hear the tension he’s trying to cover in his voice. Leaving him alone to stew while I took care of the jungle next door may have been a miscalculation.
I run my hand over the intricate woodwork along the banister and scan the room. The framed, ink drawing of the fat little dragon who lives on Mateo's hip bone, photos of Mateo with Sofia, of Sofia and Eve from their wedding, of his parents, and of Isabella and Elliot dot the room. Books on woodworking sit alongside Shakespeare, Bronte, Garcia Marquez, and others on bookshelves that have been hand-carved with care. All the loving touches he’s made to this house make it ahome. Even with the hideous kitchen and so many unfinished projects, the space conveys love.
A breath expels noisily from my open mouth. With everything Cam, Aileene, and I grew up having, none of our parents’ homes had this kind of feeling. Our mother insisted on having all of the houses professionally decorated. The only family pictures allowed were professionally taken portraits. Here, a brightly colored image that is nothing more than strokes and swirls made by the hand of a child under five is hung proudly next to a vibrant painting of the Philadelphia skyline by a local artist. My mother wouldn't even hang our artwork on the refrigerator because it would “disrupt the design flow of the kitchen.” That’s why Gran became the recipient of our masterpieces when we were kids.
As an adult, my homes have been nothing more than a place to sleep, shower, and change, but being in Mateo’s home fills me with longing. I tap my chest. We should be staying here and not at my nondescript place. I’m about to call up to him to suggest it, but I quickly clamp my mouth shut. We’ve essentially been living together, more out of necessity than choice. Don’t get me wrong, I would totally ask Mateo to live with me outright if I didn’t think it would have him running fast and far from the clingy guy who he’s only known for a handful of months.
I shiver when the air conditioning blows down on my bare shoulders. Walking over to the table, I pick up my shirt where I left it. When I poke my head through the hole, I spot a stack of what looks like bills. The floorboards above my head creak as Mateo pads around in his bedroom. Quickly, I yank the shirt over my torso and flip through the bills, glancing at the stairs periodically.
Electric, mortgage, car insurance… Shit, bills for his ER visit and ambulance ride are already here. My stomach sinks when I see he’s being charged for the ER doctor because she was out of network. Apparently, it doesn't matter that the hospital was in-network. You have to check to make sure the doctor is also. In the Emergency Department. That makes zero sense.
Quickly, I take pictures of the bills then put them neatly back in place. Maybe there’s something I can do to help. I also type a note to myself to double-check our company's insurance plan. There is no way I want any of our people dealing with something like this.
Shaking my head, I take the steps two at a time to Mateo's bedroom. If I've learned anything from the last four weeks, it's that my man will need something to take his mind off the mounting bills.
I see him before I’m at the doorway. His back to me, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. My heart sticks in my throat. This strong and loving man looks so dejected. No one should feel beat down by life, especially not someone as generous and good as Mateo.
And that’s when I decide exactly how I can help. Mateo will hate it, but I’m going to pay his bills. I’ll deal with the fallout later.
How bad can it be?
I have the money. Hell, I have more than enough, and what good is money if you can’t help the ones you love?
A strangled sound escapes my lips, and Mateo jerks his head up.
Do I love Mateo?
When he turns to look at me, the strained half-smile firmly planted on his face is the worst kind of torture. If I could, I would ride in on a white horse and vanquish his foes. But this isn’t the Middle Ages. I don't have a horse. And the only things I can claim to have vanquished are run-away sperm and STDs—ninety-eight percent of the time, eighty-two percent when people don’t use the condoms correctly or they break.
"You okay?" Afraid to spook him, I keep my voice low and quiet as I sit beside him. Muscles flex and tick under my fingertips when I rub small circles on his back.
He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just tired.”
I don’t call him out on the lie. He’s had more sleep and rest over the last month than he has in over a year. "Would you rather stay here? Sleep in your own bed tonight?"
