The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(37)
“Come on in. I’m about to make some coffee. Not the fancy coffee shop stuff, but it’s not too bad.”
“It’s okay. I’ll take a cup. I can’t believe you live all the way out here, on purpose.”
He busies himself in the kitchen, putting an actual kettle on the stove. I haven’t seen a real kettle since I left my mother’s house.
“For five years,” he confirms.
Five years driving this far out of the city to go home? No way. I’m too instant-satisfaction. If there were a transporter available, even if it were only questionably safe, I’d be the first to use it.
He catches me looking at him and frowns. “I know it’s not glamorous, and most people live in LA for the city and the nightlife, but I like how quiet it is out here. I like to think.”
“Think about . . . coyotes?”
Humor sparks in his eyes again. “Mostly my job. I take work home, review cases. I find answers and make connections I can’t make while I’m in the office where it’s busy. Sometimes I think about the universe. You are reminded how small you are out here in the desert. I like that. Puts everything in perspective after a tough day.”
Spines ebb and flow beneath my fingers as I run my hand down his bookcase. Even the books are neat, orderly, and I think even organized alphabetically and by category. The architecture section is particularly prodigious, and I read the titles The Small House, The Sustainable House, and Desert House. “So you really did go to architecture school?”
“Mm-hmm.” He’s pouring the water into a French press, so I keep looking at the books.
“Did you design this house?”
He laughs. “No. It’s midcentury modern by a local architect really into passive solar design. Not too many people want to live this far out, so I got a deal on the place. Really, no one recognizes what a work of art and science a house like this is. Or not many people. But someday I’d like to design my own house out in the desert.”
“It’s like camping every night.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I’ve been camping exactly once. Let’s just say we refer to it as the Great Misadventure of 2012. It involved carrying a thirty-pound cooler with no handles more than two miles, a pillowcase with my clothes in it, a lopsided tent that trapped every mosquito inside, and Lawrence being mistaken as the suspect in a carjacking and arrested in the parking lot on our way home. We didn’t repeat it.”
Matteo snorts. His hair is a little more tousled than I’ve seen before. He’s relaxed in jeans and a new button-down shirt, his cheeks clean-shaven, his dark eyebrows furrowed over the task of placing the mugs and saucers on the counter in a neat line. It’s . . . adorable. And that odd sense of intimacy hits me again before I’m ready for it. Like I’m peering into his soul without his permission. I turn back to the books, afraid of what he might see on my face if he catches me looking this time.
The rest of the bookshelf is filled with psychology books, crime scene investigation books, and a big fat tome of federal codes, which holds zero interest for me, so I wander into the kitchen.
“How did you end up being a detective if you went to architecture school?”
He pauses, and I can see the internal debate about how to answer. “That’s a long story. I didn’t know it until I was grown-up, but my mom had been a drug user. She missed her family in Mexico, felt alone and bored. It’s not that uncommon for housewives, actually. It made me want to help prevent others from making the same mistakes she did. So I joined patrol, and then when I discovered I was really good at narcotics, I put in for the promotion to detective.”
From the shadow behind his eyes, I’m guessing there’s more to this story, but I don’t pry because we haven’t exactly crossed the gulf between pretend significant others into the realm of “Tell me your deep dark childhood secrets.” Even superheroes guard their origin stories in comic books.
“We have to wait until the timer goes off,” Matteo says as I slide onto a barstool. The concrete counter is smooth and cool under my elbows as I prop my chin in my hands awaiting liquid sustenance.
A chiming sound emanates from my pocket, and I pull my phone out. It informs me that it’s searching for a signal and that I’m currently roaming. No joke; it’s a regular safari out here. It’s apparently been searching for a while because I can practically see my battery charge draining.
“Do you need to make a call?” He’s eyeing my phone as he pours the coffee into cups. The rich aroma fills my nose, and my mouth actually waters. Coffee, coffee, coffee. The song of my people.
“No, my phone is just searching for a signal. It’s draining the battery.”
“Service here can be tricky. I have a landline if you need.” He motions with a spoon to the corded blue telephone attached to one of the stained wood columns that separate the kitchen island from the living room.
“You have a landline?”
The spoon clinks as he swirls something into each cup then places mine in front of me. He doesn’t answer because, well, duh, he just told me he did. After a quick scan, I don’t see a television either. Definitely no towering stack of video games like my living room—thank you, Ryan—or any of the memorabilia junk that fills my friends’ houses. Or any of the typical accoutrements of router, modem, and cables.