“You already…?”
“Matt’s dead,” I say without preamble.
Mateo’s eyebrows rise in mild surprise, but then he nods. There’s no emotion on his face, no sadness, no grief. “I suppose that explains why you reassigned the redhead.”
“Please don’t fuck her,” I request.
He laughs a little, looking down at the glass in his hands. “I’m not going to fuck the redhead. Why does everyone think I’m going to cheat on Meg? I never cheated on Beth, and that bitch ripped my heart out.”
“Because of the way you look at Mia, probably,” I say, since it’s the truth.
“Mm,” he murmurs, nodding, his smile falling. “I do like Mia.”
I shift in my seat, not expecting him to admit that. “And Meg?”
“I love Meg,” he replies, glancing from the glass to me. “But I trust Mia more than I trust Meg. It’s not even close.”
“Well… Mia’s been loyal to you. That makes sense. I would remind you Meg took a bullet for you though, so…”
“No, I know. I don’t mean I distrust Meg, it’s just… I don’t have to hide anything from Mia. If Meg knew everything…” He trails off, shaking his head, his gaze drifting back to his glass. “I don’t know. Mia has surprised me. I never expected Mia to be what she is. She seems so breakable—so soft and malleable and kind, but there’s something powerful in her. Not aggressive power, but power in her gentleness, in what she can withstand. That girl would stand in the center of hurricane and throw affection at it to try to tame it.”
“I think her love definitely tends toward the unconditional,” I agree.
“Yeah. Meg has a few conditions.”
“Mia is very loving,” I acknowledge. “But so is Meg, where you’re concerned. With only one exception I know of, she accepts everything about you. And Mia already covered your ass on that base, so I don’t think you have to worry about it.”
“I’m not trying to compare them,” he says. “They’re not competing. I care about them both. I just… I don’t know.” He sighs, glancing back up at me. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to talk about them.”
“We can, if you want to,” I offer. It’s not like we haven’t had messier discussions in our time.
But he shakes his head. “I’m good.” Glancing down at his glass with a faint smirk, he adds, “I am a little eager to go to bed now, so if we could hurry this along.”
“Well, before we completely switch topics, I had an idea to run by you. Might clear up a few problems for all of us.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
I wasn’t sure he’d go for this when I walked the long stretch of house to this study, but I have even less confidence in it now. I’m hoping he does. I’m hoping he wants to behave, that he’ll welcome a way to simplify his messy feelings. He has Meg, so what reason could he actually have to say no?
But that doesn’t mean he won’t. Mateo is usually rational, but not always where women are concerned.
“Hear me out,” I begin.
Now he’s amused. “Oh, that’s a great start.”
“What if Vince and Mia got married?”
For a moment, he stares at me. I can’t read him—he really only looks like he’s processing my suggestion, then he says, “No.”
“Why?”
Mateo shrugs, playing off the importance of the matter. “I don’t believe Mia wants to marry Vince. I’m not going to make her.”
“It would force a commitment,” I point out. “I think Mia would fare better if—”
Cutting me off, Mateo says, “The answer is no. Next order of business.”
Well, that went about as well as I expected. Hopefully this next thing goes better.
I’ve gone back and forth with whether or not to tell him about Matt, but I haven’t made up my mind. On a whim, because I just don’t want to open myself up to any bullshit down the road, I make my decision. Sighing, I lean forward and meet Mateo’s gaze. “Before he died, Matt told me I was his son.”
Every trace of amusement vanishes from Mateo’s face and he puts his glass down, leaning forward to mirror my stature. “He what now?”
“I’m sure it was bullshit,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “He’s Matt, so I’m sure he just wanted to fuck with me one last time. I just wanted to tell you, because I wouldn’t put it past him to include a letter in his will or some dramatic shit like that. Just in case, I don’t want it to come as a shock to you. Again, it’s bullshit, it’s obviously bullshit, but there it is.”
His head is cocked to the side and he’s frowning, searching my face for signs of shared features. I sigh, sitting back, because I feel like I’m on display, and I hate that shit.
“What if it isn’t?” he asks.
I shrug. “Wouldn’t really make a difference, would it?”