Page 41 of Anything But Lonely

I wait for him to build up the courage or work up the nerve, or whatever it is he’s doing as he taps his fingers against the counter.

“Why is it hard for you to believe?” he finally asks.

I roll my lips together, trying to fight the smirk threatening. “Fishing for compliments, rockstar?”

My words cut through the tension in the air, and it gets a small smile out of him. He shrugs his shoulders. “Desperate times.”

I snort out a laugh, liking the way Mateo can poke fun at himself, even though I think it might be less of a joke to him than how it comes off. “Like today when you forgot how to use all your fancy microphones and monitors”

“It was all perfectly normal equipment.”

I roll my lips together, watching as he runs a hand through his hair, allowing me to see the tips of his ears turn pink.

“But in all seriousness,” he continues, “they might want to come home with me when they see me on stage, but the attraction would most likely end there.”

“I don’t know, rockstar,” I say on a sigh. “You’re looking pretty good from where I’m standing right now.”

He wipes a hand over his mouth, but I see the curve of his lips, the blush peeking out of the collar of his shirt. “Let’s just say, it’s been a while. I’m out of practice.” He takes a sip of his beer, knocking a knuckle against the counter before giving me a nod and rounding the counter.

I turn to face him. “You can’t just say that and walk away.”

Mateo turns around. “I’ve already said enough,” he laughs, but it’s free of humor. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you any of this in the first place.”

I don’t either.

And I don’t know why I’m asking.

But now that we’ve started, I don’t want to stop.

“How long has it been?” The words come out rushed, like I had to say them before I lost the nerve—something I don’t experience often. I’m not one to worry about how my words come across or cry about someone saying I come off aggressive.

But right now, in the stillness of the living room, I feel myself toeing a line I have no business being near. Flirting with the idea of where a conversation like this could go.

With my boss, no less.

The whisper of recklessness is like a familiar friend, one I know I should’ve said goodbye to, but I welcome regardless.

“Long enough,” Mateo answers, but he doesn’t move any closer to his bedroom door. He looks down at the beer bottle in his hand, picking at the paper label with the other.

“Are we talking weeks? Months?” I offer, leaning back against the kitchen counter, feigning nonchalance—like I’m just making harmless conversation. Not asking the lead singer of my favorite band how long it’s been since he’s had sex.

My heart rate quickens as Mateo smiles, shaking his head, but he doesn’t look happy.

When I think of Mateo, I expect stories about groupies and one-night stands, not two years of empty hotel rooms and cold, lonely beds.

The thought lingers longer than it probably should.

A man like Mateo wasn't supposed to know what loneliness looked like.

I blink at him, searching his face for something, anything, to tell me he’s about to laugh in my face and tell me this is all just one big joke—that he’s just messing with me.

But there’s nothing.

“Good night, Emerson,” he says, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Before I can say anything more, he heads to his bedroom, carefully closing the door behind him as he disappears into the darkness.

And I’m left here, frozen to the spot.