Page 40 of Anything But Lonely

And he’s home by ten o’clock?

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, pocketing his hands before taking them out again, opening and closing his fists like he can’t quite figure out what to do with his body. “It’s what I usually do,” he admits, but he sounds confused. Almost like he’s asking me rather than telling me. His eyes go from me to the TV, all of a sudden very interested in the movie playing.

I stand up. “You don’t go out and celebrate, or at least grab a drink?”

His gaze goes to my empty beer bottle on the coffee table. “There are drinks at home.” His lips curve, and I have to school my features, surprised that Mateo might be trying to make a joke right now.

“Spoken like a true father.” I put my hands on my hips, and his eyes move to the closed bedroom door where Crew is soundly sleeping. “But seriously, rockstar,” I continue, wondering if maybe he headed back here right away for Crew’s sake. “Crew is sleeping, and I’m here in case he wakes up. No need to rush home.”

Mateo shakes his head. “I know he’s good with you.” He finally makes his way further into the hotel room, setting his backpack down on the kitchen counter before turning to the fridge, grabbing a beer for himself. “I would just rather drink at home.”

I walk over to the counter, leaning forward on my elbows. I watch as Mateo takes a sip of his beer, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. His tattooed fingers hold the neck of the bottle, and I can’t get myself to look away.

He’s hot, single, and it’s safe to assume that he could have his choice in whose bed he ends up in at the end of the night. His son is taken care of, his job is done for the night, yet he’s here? Alone?

“What?” Mateo asks, setting his beer down. His eyes are wide as he wipes his mouth with his palm. “Do I have something on my face?”

My lips part out of disbelief. “You’re joking.”

He looks at his palm and then back at me, opening his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

I was blatantly checking this man out, and he has no fucking idea.

My mind drifts to the night I ran into him at the bar, then to last night when I joked about picturing him naked. Maybe it's the alcohol settling into my bloodstream on an almost empty stomach, or maybe it's the darkness of the hotel room, but I hear myself ask, "You're the lead singer of one of the biggest rock bands in the country. People literally throw themselves at you. And here you are, back in your hotel room, this early to drink a beer." I pause, studying him. "All alone?"

Mateo stares at me for a moment before looking at his beer like it holds the answer to my question.

Enough silence passes for it to become uncomfortable, but it isn’t.

It’s amusing, to say the least.

I can almost see Mateo’s brain short-circuiting, and I don’t think he’s realized how almost a full minute has gone by with him not saying anything.

Reaching out, I poke him in the shoulder, and it works like a charm. Like a reset button.

Mateo coughs into his fist, setting down the beer in his other hand a little too hard, causing the liquid to slosh out of the bottle. “That’s a little,” he pauses, as if trying to come up with the right word, “personal,” he decides on. “Don’t you think?”

I shrug my shoulders, more interested in his answer than whether or not he’s uncomfortable with my question. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. But I am curious.”

“You’re curious about why I’m not out hooking up with some fan?”

I purse my lips, cocking my head from one side and then the other. “More or less.”

Mateo lets out a breathy laugh, but I don’t think he finds this conversation even a little bit funny. “I don’t hook up with fans. Never have. But that’s beside the point. I don’t think my lack of sex life is any of my nanny’s business.” As the words leave his mouth, it’s like he’s resisting the urge to slap a hand over his mouth. “My son’s nanny,” he quickly clarifies, looking embarrassed, so I decide to leave it alone. Besides, I’m more interested in something else he said.

“Lack of sex life? Come on, Mateo. You're a rockstar. You're really expecting me to believe you're voluntarily celibate?”

Mateo’s hand goes to the back of his neck, rubbing the skin as he contemplates how he wants to answer. “My ex-wife and I started dating around the time the band really took off, and then two years ago we got divorced, and—” he stops himself, shaking his head before holding his hands up as if to stop me—or himself—from saying any more. “You know, this really isn’t appropriate.”

I want to push him a little further, especially now that things are getting interesting. Two years divorced. Doesn't hook up with fans. None of it fits the version of Mateo Lane I've built in my head.

But he shifts nervously, holding the neck of his beer bottle tight enough that I think he might actually shatter the glass.

“Fine, fine.” I hold my hands up in surrender, granting him a reprieve. “I’ll back off.” For now, but I keep that part to myself. “It’s just hard for me to believe, that’s all.”

That gets his attention. He looks like he wants to say something, his jaw clenching.

So I wait.