Chapter Thirty-One

“Sounds like you’re the one who needs to be told to back off,” Abigail remarked from the other end of the phone, her tone teasing but pointed.

“Why? He likes her, she likes him—just get together already! What’s the hold-up?” Sarah demanded, frustration bubbling in her voice.

“Because she wants to do it right,” Louise replied matter-of-factly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “She can keep her thighs closed for six months. Lord knows I’ve been doing it for… well, it doesn’t matter how long.”

Genevieve shook her head slightly, stirring the pasta sauce she’d been simmering for hours. It was the weekend, and although she was still working on the Diego Track report, her roommates had surprised her with a group call, pulling her away from her work for a moment.

“I just don’t get it!” Sarah shouted, exasperated. “He’s hot. He’s rich. He’s sweet. He’s not pushy. And did I mention he’s rich?”

“You’ve said those two already,” Becca chimed in, trying to be helpful.

“They’re important!” Sarah insisted loudly.

“Jesus, Sarah, stop yelling, you’re making my phone crack,” Gen said, a smile tugging at her lips despite the chaos.

Becca sighed on the line. “Have you checked out the rooftop garden yet?”

Hot.

“No,” Genevieve sighed wistfully, glancing up at the ceiling as if she could see the locked door leading to it. The rooftop garden had been one of the main reasons she’d picked this apartment—besides the state-of-the-art security system and its distance from Matteo’s supposed home. “There’s a door I think leads up there, but it’s locked.”

“Break in,” Abigail suggested without hesitation, dead serious.

“What is wrong with you people?” Becca asked, incredulous.

“Come to the dark side with us, Becc,” Sarah whispered conspiratorially.

Just then, Genevieve heard a knock at her door.

“Was that a knock?” Abigail asked, suddenly alert.

“Oh my God, it’s him, it has to be!” Sarah squealed. Gen already regretted telling them he was her neighbor. “Go check it out!”

“Oh my God, Sarah, you need to chill,” Louise warned. “Seriously, Gen, she’s like breaking out in hives or something.”

Genevieve took a slow breath and walked toward the door, phone pressed to her ear. “It’s not going to be him, guys. I asked him not to come over uninvited.”

“Pfft, like a man in love would care,” Sarah scoffed.

“He’s not in love with me,” Gen whispered sharply.

“Right.” “Sure.” “Of course not.” They all said in unison, teasing her mercilessly.

Rolling her eyes, Gen stood on her tiptoes to peer through the peephole.

“Oh shit—”

—

It was 1:02 a.m.

Genevieve wished she could tell her friends it wasn’t him, but through the peephole, she saw a flustered Matteo dressed casually, his hands nervously clasped behind his back. He stared down at the floor, his expression guarded yet intent.

“Shhh,” Abigail hushed Sarah, “Gen, open the door. Put us on speaker so we can hear everything.”

“Are you kidding?” Gen hissed, stepping away from the door and lowering her voice. “He’ll know. He’ll hear you guys because there’s no way any of you could keep your mouths shut that long.”

“Oh, come on,” Louise begged. “Even I’m up for it.”

“I… I wouldn’t mind either,” Becca added softly.

“Do it!” Sarah shrieked. “Open the door! He won’t even know we’re listening.”

“Actually…” came a muffled voice from the other side of the door. Gen froze. “You might want to listen to her. I can hear you fine.”

“Oh fuck,” Sarah whispered.

“Is he like… Batman or something?” Abigail joked.

“Just call us back when he leaves,” Sarah instructed in a hushed tone.

“No!” Louise protested. “I’ll be at work! Call back in the morning.”

“No, I’ll be at work.”

“Me too!”

“Ugh!” Gen groaned. She hung up the phone, slid it into her pocket, and began the slow process of unlocking the door. Finally, she pulled it open with a flourish and glared at Matteo’s smiling face.

“What?” she asked, trying to sound annoyed but failing.

He revealed his hands from behind his back, showing the half-wound wraps he’d attempted to do himself. “Help?” he asked quietly.

“Fine, come on in,” she said, stepping aside.

Gen sighed deeply.

“Thank you,” Matteo said triumphantly.

She returned to the kitchen to stir the pasta sauce, hearing the soft click of the door locking behind him, followed by the sound of multiple locks being secured. She glanced back with a questioning look. He just shrugged.

“Habets—”

Gen glanced down at her sauce, then at her own clothes—just a tank top and workout shorts. She hadn’t expected company tonight. Moments later, she felt him step close behind her. His breath warmed the back of her neck as he leaned over her shoulder.

“Smells good,” he murmured with genuine admiration.

—

“I suppose that’s a compliment coming from a man like you,” he whispered before stepping back and giving her space to breathe again.

“It is a compliment,” Gen replied softly.

Her grip tightened around the wooden spoon she was using, and she turned to face him, brandishing it playfully. “Aren’t you supposed to live by Central Park?”

Matteo’s eyes widened in surprise as he lowered himself onto a stool by the kitchen island. “Uh, no?”

She raised an eyebrow and stepped closer. “You live by Central Park,” she repeated, her voice firm.

“Ah,” he nodded knowingly. “Is that why you chose this apartment?”

“No,” she said aloud, but her blush said yes.

He chuckled, shaking his head. He looked so much younger outside the office—maybe because his dark hair wasn’t perfectly slicked back but fell messily across his forehead. Maybe it was the five o’clock shadow he hadn’t bothered to shave or the comfortable t-shirt and sweatpants he wore. Or maybe it was the unguarded expression on his face, open and vulnerable, allowing her to read him like a book. His golden-green eyes caught the light, and for a moment, Gen found herself lost in them.

“I took you to my family’s safehouse that night. I don’t actually live there,” he explained quietly.

Gen’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why would you do that?”

He shifted uncomfortably on the stool, looking around before shrugging. She realized that was probably the best answer she was going to get.

Setting down the spoon, she walked around the island toward him.

“Let me see,” she said firmly.

He turned the stool to face her. Gently, she removed the bandages he’d tried to tie himself and examined his knuckles. The cuts weren’t bleeding anymore, and the ragged edges were healing into smooth pink lines. She nodded in approval and began to carefully rewrap them.

“I like your knuckles,” she whispered, surprised by her own confession.

He gave her a look of amused skepticism. “Sure,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

She shook her head. Well, she’d already gotten this far. “I mean it. In public, you’re this polished, no-nonsense guy—impeccably dressed, sharp posture, not a hair out of place. Then you have these knuckles that tell a different story. They’re jagged and torn and…” She stopped, tightening the bandage. His fingers wrapped around hers, holding them gently.

“And?” he whispered, leaning his head toward hers.

Gen shrugged. “Rough around the edges. Like you.”

She finished bandaging the other hand and then wrapped the last strip snugly.

“Thank you for your help,” he said, standing and sauntering toward the door. “It really does smell good. I’ll let you get back to your friends.”

He was about to unlock the door when she found herself calling out to him.

He turned, one brow raised in question.

“Do you want to try some?” she asked, holding out a spoonful of sauce.

He hesitated for a moment, then smiled and nodded.