Come What May

Mateo glances from me to the chair before shrugging. “I don’t care where you sit, so long as you do it.”

I’m not sure why, but I want to push his buttons the same way he’s pushing mine. Tit for tat.

I step up to him boldly, even though I’m bluffing. “Your lap looks mighty comfy.” I expect him to get a clue and make room for me.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he leans forward, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls, landing me squarely in his lap. I’m momentarily stunned. He’s so warm and firm beneath me, it’s a fight not to melt right into him and purr like a kitten.

A fight I’m apparently losing, judging by the smugly satisfied rumble coming from Mateo.

For a minute or two, neither of us speak. And while I’d never outwardly admit it, here in his arms with my head pressed to his chest, I feel a sense of peace I haven’t felt since my dad passed.

Until he speaks and ruins it.

“We need to talk.”

I sigh and pull away from his warmth. “About what? What could we possibly have to discuss?”

“What are you doing, Seraphine?”

“What do you mean? Currently I’m trying to figure out who you think you are!”

“I think I’m someone who cares. I’m someone who is worried about you. Simon told me you haven’t been back to work since your dad died. It’s been almost a month.”

I try to move off of him, but Mateo holds me in place.

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

He brings his lips to my ear. “You’re right, it’s probably not my business.” My stupid, hormone-fueled, traitorous body turns to jelly, imagining him whispering sweet nothings instead. “But I’m going to make it my business.”

“Why?” I ask, my voice so thin it borders on whiny.

“Because I know how it feels to lose someone. I know how hard it is to pull yourself out of that deep, dark hole. I’ve been there, and if it weren’t for Desi, I’d have let it swallow me up. I don’t want that for you. Your friends don’t either, but they’re all too worried about overstepping.”

I pull back as far as he’ll allow and glance at him over my shoulder. “And you’re not?”

His sinful lips tilt up in a grin. “Not even a little.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got no skin in the game. Everyone else is walking on eggshells around you. But me? I’m gonna be like a bull in a china shop. You want to cry and hide and let life pass you by. That shit won’t fly with me.”

He sounds so genuine—but something prickles, like there’s more to it. I can’t help but feel he has other motives, but at this point, I know I need the help, so I’ll take it.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Okay? As in no more bullshit? You’ve got to get yourself together.”

I nod.

“Even if it hurts?” he asks.

“Yeah, even if it hurts.”Chapter EightMateoI’ve spent the last seven days working on a plan for Seraphine. A plan her gorgeous, stubborn ass will probably shoot down out of pride alone. The headstrong woman needs help, knows she needs it, and still wants to go it alone.

She’s as confounding as she is tempting.

Still, she needs someone to guide her through her grief, and apparently that someone is me. Not that I mind. I’d rather put in the work than watch her waste her potential.

“Alexa—call Seraphine,” I command as I turn onto her street. Yesterday I told her I was taking her to lunch. She agreed—reluctantly—so I wouldn’t put it past her to try to bail.

The line rings three times before she answers, mumbling a sleepy-sounding hello.

“I’ll be there in about two minutes. Be ready.”

“What?” she asks, some of the grogginess leaving her tone.

“You heard me.” I disconnect the call before she can give me any lip. Sometimes, I think she talks back and picks fights just for the hell of it.

I idle in her driveway, waiting to see if she’s going to make me come in and physically get her. A thrill races through me at the thought of tossing her lithe body over my shoulder, my palm pressed tightly against her biteable ass to keep her still as I carry her out to my truck.

Maybe she’d squirm in my grip, mouth off a little, and I’d spank her pretty little ass red. The thought alone has my cock pushing against the zipper of my jeans. Seraphine is a five-alarm fire, and even though I know it’ll burn, she’s tempting enough for me to willingly stick my hand in the fire.

My budding fantasy fizzles when moments later, Seraphine walks out of the house dressed in a pair of ratty denim cut-offs, a distressed white T-shirt knotted at her waist, a leather jacket, and a pair of knee-high boots.

She looks damn fine. I’m talking I-wouldn’t-mind-seeing-her-handprints-on-my-hood fine—which truly says something, because my vehicles are my church.