The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(27)

“Not to break up the comedy act, but we have things to do in my bedroom.”

I close my eyes as both my friends chortle and Ryan says, “Things, huh?”

“Move it or lose it, Ryan.” I shove past him. “That’s not what I meant.”

He closes rank behind me and blocks Matteo in the entryway. He’s still smirking, but now he and Lawrence remind me strongly of two big brothers; I’m more than mortified.

“So what do you do, Matteo? Are you with Genius too?” Ryan sizes up Matteo’s button-down shirt. It’s not normal Genius fare, and I want to smack my own head. Work meeting. Right. Matteo would have to work with me for it to be a work meeting.

Matteo clearly picks up the same vibe I do but handles it like a pro. Completely casual. “I went to school for architecture.” He hangs his head sheepishly and looks at Ryan and Lawrence. “Actually, this isn’t for work. I met MG in a coffee shop. She and I got to talking, and I told her I wanted to read some comic books, so she invited me over to give me a few suggestions.”

Lawrence’s and Ryan’s heads swivel to me in tandem. It’s creepy. I know how implausible this seems. I never invite guys from the coffee shop to my house to show them comics. My home is my sanctuary, and Ryan and I have a strict no-hookup policy in the house. My mind spins, trying to figure out how to tell them about our work without spilling the beans. Maybe Matteo won’t mind if my roommate knows about the ruse.

Lawrence busts up laughing instead of questioning Matteo further. “I bet she did.”

Somehow they are buying it. After giving me a good once-over, Lawrence opens his arm to let Matteo past. “Best not keep a woman waiting, son.” He goes so far as to clap him soundly on the shoulder.

“It’s nothing. Seriously, guys. Just go do whatever you were doing.” I comport myself with every ounce of dignity I can muster until Matteo and I are safely in my room. I leave the door wide open.

“That went well,” I mutter, glancing around my room. In my head I’m cursing myself for not cleaning up. I didn’t really plan on bringing him in here. I see the rubble of my room with fresh eyes. Not too much laundry. The bed is half-made. Some papers and drawings on the floor and on my nightstand. I walk over to the dresser, stuff a pair of undies back in, and shut all the drawers.

Trog trots in and hops on my bed with a jingle. The white duvet is peppered with the copper-and-white hairs that incessantly fall from my dog, and when he lies down, a cloud of them fly into the air.

Matteo must decide that looks like a good idea because he walks over to my bed and sits next to the dog. I’m left to fend for myself and end up sitting awkwardly facing them in the wooden chair that holds a plant near the window.

“Now what?” I ask, looking at the man and dog on my bed. Matteo looks far too at home with my dog. On. My. Bed. Can I even count the months—nay, years—it’s been since I’ve had a guy in my room other than Ryan or Lawrence? Voldemort—the guy who filmed our dates for profit—was the last one, so two years? Quite the dry spell. I have the insane urge to push him back onto my bed and sink my hands into those artfully disheveled locks of his, fake relationship or no.

“I guess we could always do what your roommates are expecting and . . .” Matteo purrs as if reading my mind. For the briefest of seconds, something sparks in his gaze that looks suspiciously like desire, but it’s gone in a blink. “Look at comic books?” he finishes.

I let out a small chuckle, and it breaks the tension, though my stomach has yet to unclench from my vision of us rolling around on my duvet.

“Fair point. Work. The case.” My closet is a disaster area, and I want to shield him from too much of the mess, so I open the sliding door farthest from him and reach in to look for my stack of comics. “They’re here. I just have to find—whoops.” I knock over a stack of watercolor sketches. I’m not the most neat and tidy of women. I cultivate the “creative chaos” style of housekeeping.

I dig for a few more minutes. “That’s weird. I swear I thought I’d put them in here.” I look around my room in hopes of inspiration and spy the comics on the top of my bookshelf. I guess I moved them at some point. Yet I could have sworn I put them in my closet. Maybe Ryan wanted to look at them as reference material for the video game? He’s the only one who ever comes in here. I shrug my unease off, anxious to get to the business of looking through comics so I can stop sneaking glances at Matteo petting my dog on my bed.

Nabbing the comics off the shelf, I sit in front of Matteo. Trog is now on his back, laying it all out for the world to see. He has zero modesty.

“So this is the first of the new ones, and I thought we could look at where Casey Junior picked up and Senior left off. Show you the difference between the two comics just so you have an operating knowledge of the series as a whole.”

It’s incredibly awkward for me to turn the comic book halfway between us. We’re both craning our necks at angles that aren’t comfortable, and I let out a huff of frustration before picking up the stack of comics and plopping myself between Trog and Matteo. My hip presses into Matteo’s, but I imagine a stone wall there. Partners don’t focus on how aware they are of other partners’ legs, right?

I look up and our eyes meet. I should say something about the comic book. I reach for another, and instead, I end up sliding back a fraction of an inch when my weight lands on the issue instead of grabbing it. Something flicks in his eyes, a switch going from cool to hot. He helps me to sit up again, heat searing through my shirt sleeve where his hand rests like a lightsaber. He’s close. He’s too close. Matteo leans forward, his eyes on my lips. It feels like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, like this is something big, exciting, and suddenly scary. My heart stutters to an absolute halt in my chest. Frozen. It’s Castle Black in there. Something thaws, a trickle at first but picking up speed until it’s a torrent. My body automatically returns his lean. Matteo is so close, his face is blurry. Then his breath is on my cheek, and . . . he reaches right across me and grabs the framed picture off the bedside table.