Page 22 of My Secret Bandit

His nonchalance and seductive smirk had me blushing hard. To regain any kind of poise, I changed the subject.

“Tell me about her.”

“Who? My mom?” he asked, distracted as his eyes lingered on my lips.

I nodded, and we took a seat on the couch.

“Her name is Benita, Benny for short. She’s first-generation Cuban American. Her and my dad, Thomas, live in Sarasota. She’s a high school math teacher. She is ridiculously sweet but also has one of those take-no-bullshit personalities when she needs to. I think having my dad deployed for a lot of their marriage made her tougher than she needed to be. But I’m grateful for it. She taught me some great skills and manners. Drove home the importance of character and morals.”

“And your dad?”

“He’s a retired Airforce Major General. Now he spends most of his time helping coach little league or building stuff, but he’s always into something. He’s not one to sit still for very long. Like I said, he was away a lot, but he’s always been mine, my sister, and my mom’s number one supporter.”

I watched, admiring the gleam in his irises as he talked about his family and moved closer to him. He mirrored my movements and finished closing in the gap between us until our legs pressed together.

“What about you? What are your parents like?”

I winced at the question, knowing my answer involved way more than he probably expected. Talking about my family and my life growing up was always a sensitive subject for me. I hated the pity I saw on people’s faces after they’d learned about my childhood, or how the man who should’ve been my father replaced me with a new family. But resting on Mateo’s shoulder with his arm now circled around me, his hand tracing lazy ovals on my lower back, it didn’t feel like such a scary story to tell.

“Well.” I sighed, playing with the hem of my dress. “I never really knew my dad. Him and my mom split while I was still a baby. He’d show up every now and then, but he eventually got married and started having other kids around the same time me and my mom moved in with my grandparents. He stopped coming by then. Said he needed to focus on his family. I think the last time I saw him I was eight or nine. And my mom—“ My voice caught in my throat as the memories flooded back. I closed my eyes to force them away. My body shook with the heartbreak I’ve kept buried for the last few months.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out.

“Hey. It’s okay.” Mateo smoothed his knuckles over my skin to wipe away a silent tear. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

I shook my head, sitting up a little straighter I saw his face, etched with concern and an overwhelming need to soothe my broken heart. Without really understanding it, I knew Mateo was someone I could trust. Someone capable of handling my past while helping to keep me pieced together as I worked through my present.

“It’s okay. It’s just that you’ll be the first person to hear the entire story.”

He cupped my jaw, the soft pad of his thumb slipped over my lips. “Let me take some of that pain away.”

Deep breath in, I dove. “She was the greatest, strongest person. She was a nurse for one of the local hospitals and ran a small office cleaning business on her off days. My grandparents helped her as much as they could, that’s a lot of the reason we went to stay with them. They looked after me so she could focus on work. At the time she had big plans for a new start.” A sad chuckle left me as I remembered my mom and her crazy vision board she used to stand in front of every morning.

“She wanted to move to a new city, buy us a house of our own, but once my grandpa got sick, we stayed. It was our turn to help take care of him. She was always my voice of reason. She gave me the encouragement to do what I wanted.Bewho I wanted. She wouldn’t let me mope around or cry after a rough day. She let me make my own decisions even when she didn’t agree with them. Like taking a couple years from school to help her out. She did her best to pass her strength to me.”

“Looks like she did a pretty good job to me.” Mateo’s quiet voice reflected the sadness I felt.

With his hands in my lap, I turned my attention to mindlessly playing with his fingers as I continued. “Last November, I went home for Thanksgiving break. My mom was driving us home from dinner, and another car hit us. The woman had apparently been driving all day and fell asleep. I got away with a couple of broken ribs, but my mom... um… yeah, she didn’t make it.”

“God, Jameson,” he huffed, a glossy sheen coating his eyes. He pulled me against him. “I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine how hard that was.”

The weight I carried lessened as he held me. I don’t know if it was because in almost ten months I wasfinallytalking about my mother’s passing or if it was because of Mateo, the compassion that stayed in his gaze as he pulled back to wipe more tears away, or something different altogether. Whatever it was, I knew I could start healing.

“Thank you for telling me. Seriously.”

“A little heavy for a first date, huh?” I forced a chuckle and moved my sleeve over the bottom of my wet jaw.

He shrugged, “Maybe. But at least we got one hard conversation out of the way.”

I scrunched up my nose. “I don’t think I have the emotional capacity to handle more hard conversations like this.”

“That’s okay, I’ll be here to hold you through every single one if they ever come about.” He pressed a kiss to my head.

“Tell me something,” I said.

“Like?”

“Gimme the basics. Age, birthday, middle name, siblings, favorite food, something you’re afraid of. You know, things people usually discuss when getting to know each other.”

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